


The Lights on Old Broadway

by Lady_Impala



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: AU, Angst, Broadway, F/M, Fluff, M/M, May December Romance, Slow Burn, Theatre Kid, long con
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-25
Updated: 2017-11-17
Packaged: 2018-09-19 18:45:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 39,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9455597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Impala/pseuds/Lady_Impala
Summary: Percival Graves is directing the newest work in progress for Broadway's next big hit that no one knows about. Credence Barebone is an inexperienced young actor who wants desperately to get away from the life he's led at home. Gellert Grindelwald is a competing director who will do whatever it takes to bring Percival to his knees, and he's found the best little piece of leverage there is.





	1. Auditions

**Author's Note:**

> Full AU, no magic here folks. Lots of fluff, lots of angst, lots of explicit content. I'll give you a heads up if things get twisted in upcoming chapters, cuz there's a high likelihood of that. But it's a *very* slow burn, so buckle up and hold on. <3 Comments, as always, are appreciated!

Every year, New York casting calls felt more and more like cattle calls. A handful of directors sat in an empty theatre, stacks of headshots on the tables in front of them, notebooks scribbled with notes on actors, and dozens of scribbles to help pass the time. Face after shining face paraded through, hoping for their shot as the next Julie Andrews or Lin-Manuel Miranda. Only about a quarter of them even had a shot at chorus, and maybe two out of the whole bunch had that spark. 

It was exhausting. 

Tucked up in the very back of the theatre, where the shadows were the darkest, and the sound was the worst, was a table with two people; a distinguished man in his late thirties, black hair slicked back over a scattering of silver sideburns and tired brown eyes in a stubbled face that was raw with the scrape of his hand, and a younger woman with a harsh cut bob and too-bright eyes as she fidgeted nervously with stacks of headshots. Eying her sideways with a barely tolerant sigh, he reached over and covered her hand with his firmly, pinning it against the table. "For the love of God, Tina. You are _not_ helping." 

"I'm sorry, Mr. Graves," she said with a slightly nervous fidget before her hand finally stilled. "I'm just so worried about finding--" 

"As am I," he cut her off firmly. "But continuing to shuffle those papers will serve no more purpose than to irritate me further. And there isn't enough whiskey in the building for that to be a wise idea." 

"No, of course not." Tina managed a weak smile before pulling her hand away and folding them both in her lap. She picked at a hangnail on her thumb, foot bouncing just a little. 

Graves let it go for another minute or two before pinching the bridge of his nose and turning in his seat to face her. "Just let it out, Tina. We'll both be better for it, and perhaps then you'll be able to focus." 

A bright blush burned across her cheeks, and Tina swallowed hard. "Well, it's just...you've been so particular about this last role. Everyone else is cast, and...and there's only a few left. I'm worried that you won't find just the right person, and then the whole project will fall apart, and--" 

Graves raised a hand and stayed her objections. "Let's not start burning bridges we can't even see yet. The project will not fall apart because of one missing piece. Have a little faith, Ms. Goldstein." A wry smile tilted up his lips, and his companion drew in a slow breath. 

"Right. Yes. Alright." She nodded eagerly and turned back to the stage as the next set was brought in. 

~*~ 

Outside in the hall, where dozens of new and experienced actors alike waited in varying states from bored to petrified, there sat a thin young man. He fell into the latter category by a mile; his hands shook beneath the threadbare coat he wore, the best blazer he was able to dig out of the back of the closet without Ma finding out. Shoulders hunched to his ears, dark hair in an unfortunate cut curling loosely around the tips of his ears, he stared at the paper in his hand, shaking so hard he could barely read it. The experience section of his application was completely empty, and he had a passport photo paperclipped to the back. At his feet sat a battered old acoustic guitar, one foot resting on top of the case. So far, he'd been completely and blessedly ignored by the others there; some had given him looks of pity, others downright sneers. No one expected him to make it anywhere, much less the young man himself. 

Credence Barebone jumped as his number was finally called. He swallowed thickly and rose on unsteady feet, fumbling with the handle on his guitar case. A chorus of titters filled the hallway, and he felt a blush sting the thin skin of his cheeks. Weaving through the crowd, he followed after the plump woman who smiled at him comfortingly. "Come along, dearie, you're next," she said as she ushered him through the doors. 

The theatre was dark, and blessedly silent after the constant white noise of the busy hallway. Credence paused and stared up in awe at the ceiling that soared above his head, a complicated mix of ropes, pulleys, and catwalks crisscrossed in the air. There was a slightly impatient huff from his guide, and she tugged on his elbow. "Hurry up now. The directors have been at this all day, and they're a finicky bunch when they're fully fed. Do you have your resume?" She held out an expectant hand, brows raised over bright blue eyes. 

Hesitating only briefly, Credence handed over the single sheet. Her lips turned down in a sympathetic frown, and she patted his shoulder. "I'm proud of you for coming out," she said, in that way that told him he had about as much chance as a snowball in hell. He nearly wanted to turn and run, but bit back his fear, and managed a weak smile. "You ever done this before, sweetie?" 

"N-no," Credence stammered almost inaudibly. From through the twist of thick black curtains, he could hear someone else on stage, singing a remarkable rendition of It's Quiet Uptown. He resisted the urge to turn and look, instead focusing on the smiling face of the woman who had led him in. 

"Well, first off, speak up. They're scattered all over the theatre, and if no one can hear you, it won't matter if you sing like an angel. Second, all you're doing right now is proving you can sing a bit. Just close your eyes and pretend you're sitting in the park by yourself. If they like you, they'll ask you to stick around for a reading. And third, you've got this. Really, hon. The hardest part is just showing up." She squeezed his bicep, and Credence felt something warm bloom in the pit of his stomach. This seemed to please her, because her own smile widened. "Ah, there you are. Good. Now, you're up." She gave him a gentle push, her smile softening as she tripped over his own two feet. 

Whoever had been up before Credence passed him on the other side of a thick black curtain, walking briskly and causing the velvet to flutter. The young man licked his lips, and cautiously stepped onto the vast black stage. He'd always heard stories about how you couldn't see the audience because of the bright lights on the stage, and that in theory, that would help him with his crippling stage fright. 

Whoever told him that lied. 

As Credence walked towards the center of the stage, where there was a single stool, and a bright orange X in tape, he could see every single face in the seats. He counted over a dozen, most looking supremely bored, and he watched as half of them completely tuned him out. Fine. He wasn't here for them. Credence had bucked up his courage to come out for himself, to prove he could do it. 

Go big or go home. And he sure as hell didn't want to go home. 

Clearing his throat awkwardly, he stepped up onto the X, looking out over the audience. There was a spot on the back wall, just to the left of two people he could barely make out in the glow of their dim lamp. Maybe if he stared at that, he would forget about everyone there. "M-My name is Credence Barebone," he said, fingers shifting on the handle of his case as he forgot his first instruction to be loud. 

"Louder, my boy," drawled a smooth voice from somewhere in the middle of the room. Credence's dark eyes were instantly drawn to the source of the voice; a man alone, booted ankle resting on his knee, a single clipboard in his lap. His hair a shock of nearly white blond, and even at this distance, he could feel a piercing stare on him. He shifted his feet and nodded, somehow bolstered by the stranger as he looked back at the spot on the wall. Something about the people in back had changed; the man was now sitting forward, arms resting on the table as if he was intensely interested. 

"My name is Credence Barebone," he said again, this time his soft voice carrying easily to the back. It cut through the thick air, clear as a bell. "I'll be singing Don't Let Me Down by the Chainsmokers." There was an awkward shifting of the people in the seats; apparently the idea of singing a pop song was not well received. His blush deepened, and he looked down at his feet. 

"I look forward to it, Credence," came a voice from the back of the room. This one was rougher than the first, with just a hint of an Irish lilt on the back end. Credence looked up in surprise, his eyes finding the man in the back, half in shadow. He managed half a smile and stepped over to the stool, squatting down to take his guitar out of the case before perching one leg up on the battered wooden seat. Slim fingers danced deftly over the strings in a quick test of tune, which was perfect. 

"It's just you," he whispered to himself, head down. One heartbeat, two, then he began to play. The trembling stopped as soon as the music began, his shoulders relaxing and squaring as his eyes closed. Then his voice joined his strings. It was a pure sound, filling the room and soaring into the rafters. Every sound stopped as the audience was captivated. Lyrics tumbled off his tongue, heavy with deep emotion that came from a soul that knew the pain of true loneliness. Every note was absolutely perfect, and he sat up slowly, head tilted back and foot tapping against the wooden floor.

~*~ 

In the back of the room, Graves barely dared to breathe. He had sat back in his seat, one hand covering his mouth. Dark eyes were locked on the slim figure of the young man hunched over his instrument, watching with rapt attention. His heart pounded behind his ribs, goosebumps rippling across his skin. 

All too soon, the song ended. In the silence that followed, Graves watched the young man's tension return in the blink of an eye. He fidgeted uncomfortably with the neck of the guitar, striking an awkward chord that shattered the peace that had descended. "Thank you, Mr. Barebone," said a female voice from somewhere near the front. "Please return to the hallway, and we'll let you know if you're sticking around." 

Credence nodded again, dropping back to the floor on his knees to tuck away the instrument again. Graves watched as his black hair fell across his face, obscuring the lines of his profile. He had the sudden, inexplicable urge to reach out and tuck that hair behind the curve of those perfect ears. To trace the sharp line of his jaw, too thin even from here, to run the pad of his thumb along that full lower lip... 

Startled by his own train of thought, Graves sat up abruptly and leaned on the table again, eyes never leaving Credence as he packed up and scurried off stage. "I need him," he whispered fiercely. 

Tina looked up from her notes, eyes wide. "Um...I'll make a note of that, Mr. Graves. But what if--" 

"I need him," he repeated, sitting back again and staring at the empty stage. "That one's _mine_."


	2. Waiting and Debating

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Credence makes a new friend, and the directors argue about who makes callbacks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Onward we go! <3 Comments, as always, are appreciated.

The wait was by far the most excruciating part of the process. Having already waited almost four hours for his turn, since Credence had arrived absurdly early to avoid the potential for being late, the next stretch nearly drove him mad. His previous seat was still vacant; apparently the concrete floor behind a soda machine wasn't exactly prime real estate. After he was dismissed from the theatre, he made a beeline for his spot. Knees tucked to his chest, Credence propped the guitar against the wall beside him and dropped his head with a heavy sigh. 

"You too, huh?" Asked a jovial voice from beside him. Credence jumped, startled by the man he hadn't seen sitting on the other side of the narrow hallway. He had a friendly, round face, a mop of thin brown hair, and bright eyes that smiled at the young man across from him. Sitting cross-legged in a pair of comfortable jeans and a sweater vest, he leaned against the wall and tapped his fingers against his knees in what was likely a nervous tick. "Auditions are rough, aren't they?" 

"I-I guess...?" Credence stammered. He wasn't entirely sure if the man was actually talking to him, or maybe someone else. But no, the man was smiling directly at him. 

He seemed to get the sense that Credence was confused, because he leaned forward with one hand extended. "Name's Jacob. Kowalski. Not the best stage name, I know, but I like it. Gotta stick with your heritage, right?" Credence acted on pure instinct and accepted his hand to shake, his frigid fingers enveloped by Jacob's larger, warmer ones. "What's your name, pal?" 

"Credence," he answered softly, clearing his throat and trying again. "Credence Barebone." 

"Barebone? Man, that's an _awesome_ last name!" Jacob sat back with an even wider grin, running his fingers through his hair and reaching for his water bottle. "Stage name, or given?" 

"Ah, given." That was a much easier lie than the truth. Credence tucked his hands back in his lap, trying to hide the shaking. "Do, uh...do you do this a lot?" 

"Oh, all the time," Jacob said after he swallowed his water. He seemed to notice Credence's discomfort, and took a second to look him over. "Hey, you hungry? I seen you here for a while, but haven't seen you eat anything. I got a couple sandwiches, I always bring extra." Without waiting for acceptance, he turned and dug around in the backpack that sat on the floor next to him, coming out with a saran wrapped sandwich, a bag of cookies, and a water bottle. "Here, have at." 

"Oh, no, you don't have to--" Credence started, even though his eyes were wide, and he couldn't hide the loud growl of his stomach. 

"Nah, come on, I clearly don't need them all." He patted his wide gut with a grin and pushed them into Credence's hands. The younger man was forced to simply accept them, which he did with a hesitant, if genuine smile. "They're gonna be bickering in there for the next twenty minutes at least. Gotta sort through the ones they actually want to see back for a reading. Those always take longer than just singing a couple bars, and man, it's a lot harder to sit through a crappy scene than a crappy song, y'know?" 

The weak smile that Credence offered around a mouthful of sandwich made Jacob laugh as he pulled out his own lunch. "You never done this before?" Credence shook his head and looked down, his cheeks bright red. "Hey, no, that's great! You sure picked a helluva way to start out, though. Most've us start with, like, I dunno, high school stuff. But no, here you are, just auditioning for the big boys on Broadway. And a coupla 'riginal works to boot! How d'you think you did?" 

Credence was slow to swallow, taking the time to formulate an answer. "I...I don't really know. I couldn't see anyone when I was singing, so I don't know what they thought." 

"Oh, you can't ever trust 'em anyway," Jacob said with a wave of his food. "They all keep a totally straight face so you've got no idea how you did. I swear they get some kind of...twisted pleasure out of making us actors miserable." His grin widened to match the tiny one that tugged at the corners of Credence's lips. "But how did you _feel_?" 

"Good, I guess?" Credence finally answered with a shrug of one thin shoulder. "I mean, I remembered all the words, and I hit all the right notes. I think." 

"Well hey, that's better than a lot!" Jacob took another drink of his water and sighed contentedly, clearly settling in for a long wait. 

~*~ 

Inside the theater, the directors and their assistants had all gathered in from their scattered tables, stacks of head shots at the ready. The stack of rejections was significantly taller than the ones they wanted to keep. Where things got interesting was the ones where there was conflict. With six directors in the room, it would have been a miracle if there hadn't been some level of debate about it. Majority ruled in most of those decisions, unless someone hotly contested the vote. 

On the whole, Graves had nothing to add to the conversation. He'd only wanted to see a handful come back for the second round, so he perched on the back of one of the chairs, studying his nails and waiting for the bickering to stop. Tina stood beside him, watching the proceedings intently, as was her job. If anything interesting happened, she'd let him know. 

Then the name of the boy came up, and his attention was arrested instantly. "Credence Barebone," drawled the same familiar female voice from earlier. She counted the headshots in her hand and shrugged. "Only two yes', out he goes." 

"I beg your pardon," Graves said as he flowed to his feet and pivoted on his toe, eyes narrowed at the other directors. "The boy stays." 

"Why, Percival?" Asked a nasally male to his left. He was older, thin with a pinched face like he'd spent his life eating lemons. "He's afraid of his own shadow, you honestly think the kid has what he needs to make it? Put a script in his hand, and you won't hear a word he says. And what he does say won't be worth the time." 

"I'm sorry, were you asleep while the boy was singing?" Graves shot back, one thick brow arching high over a deeply unamused stare. "He's a natural talent, one that could use a little refining, yes, but you can't tell me you didn't see the potential there." 

"He's too scrawny, he'd never survive," countered a woman this time, on the other side of him. Graves rolled his eyes and heaved a long suffering sigh as he turned his attention on her. She was a comfortably plump woman with bright blonde ringlets that she clearly paid good money for. "You know being physically fit is a key requirement to being on stage; I doubt he's eaten a good meal in a week!" 

"Then perhaps you could share your lunch with him, Annabelle. You clearly don't need it all." The response came from the last place Graves expected; the man from earlier with the bleached hair. He hadn't moved from his own seat, on the edge of the gathering. His head was tipped down, eyes closed and arms folded in a postured that screamed utter disinterest. As he spoke, he opened his eyes; one was a deep chocolate brown, while the other was an unsettlingly clear blue-white that pinned the woman to her seat, any offended protest dying in her throat. "For once, I'm inclined to agree with my dear Percy here. Mmm...The boy needs to stay." There was an unmistakably possessive note to his voice; the slightest hesitation before his last sentence, as if he'd had to change course mid-word. 

It made the hackles raise on the back of Graves' neck for reasons he chose not to examine deeper. 

But he also wasn't one to look a gift horse in the mouth, especially when he was outnumbered. Support was support; he'd simply have to prepare for a battle when it came time to cast. If Credence had the spine he knew deep in his gut he did, he was exactly what Graves needed. Wanted. "What's one more face for the reading?" He asked dryly. "You've got people up there on weaker reasoning than Credence. Let him prove you wrong." 

There was an awkward silence, followed by a shuffle and sigh of agreement. "Fine, Graves, you and Grindelwald can keep your pet." Graves bit back a flinch at the use of their names together, and merely nodded his thanks. "That settles it. Take five, then we start the next round." 

"Five, thank you," Tina parroted back immediately. She gathered up their papers and made her way back to the table. Graves started to follow her, hands sliding back into his pockets as he seriously considered, not for the first time that day, sneaking out back for a cigarette. But then he'd smell of it, and then Tina would be on his case, and he _really_ didn't need that just now. 

"Hey Percy, wait up," called that same oil-slick voice from before. Back to the man, Graves didn't bother hiding the sneer on his lips, though he'd smoothed away all trace of it before turning around. The man was on his feet now, approaching slowly from a few rows up. Grindelwald moved with a fluid, seductive grace; the sight of it turned Graves' stomach.

“What do you want, Gelly?” he said with exaggerated patience. His expression was carefully schooled, but there was a storm brewing behind his eyes. “I’m a little busy, if you hadn’t noticed.” 

“Oh, I noticed,” Grindelwald purred, his tone sending a chill up Graves’ spine. He stopped beside him, grinning like he knew a secret. “Taken a shine to the boy, have you, Percy?” 

“He’s talented,” Graves snapped back, cursing his lapse in control. His fingers curled into a tight fist in his pocket, and he regained control of himself. “You noticed it, too, or you wouldn’t have spoken to keep him around.” 

“Oh, no doubt. The boy’s…a deliciously skilled specimen. If he can act as well as he can sing, he’d be the perfect fit for my project.” Mismatched eyes watched Graves’ face with rapt attention, looking for a weakness. 

The thought of losing out on the exact puzzle piece he needed to Grindelwald set Graves’ teeth on edge. He opened his mouth to respond when Tina’s voice cut across the room. “Mr. Graves? It’s time, sir.” He grit his teeth and tipped his head to the blond who sneered down at him. 

“We’ll pick this up later, Gelly,” he said before turning sharply on his heel and stalking to the back of the room, where Tina waited with a fresh notebook and a steaming mug of coffee. “Please tell me you fortified that,” he said without preamble, picking up the mug and taking a drink before she could respond. “Oh thank God.” The bite of whiskey burned down the back of his throat, and Graves sat heavily in his seat. “You know me too well, Ms. Goldstein.” 

“No, sir, I simply pay attention.” With a supremely smug smile, Tina sat down beside Graves and picked up her own mug of coffee. 

~*~ 

The appearance of the woman from backstage caused an instant hush to fall on those gathered in the hall. Credence's lunch suddenly felt like a rock in his stomach as he listened to her list off number after number. A total of twenty, a shockingly small number he thought. At one point, his companion Jacob cheered softly, his grin wider than the young man had seen it yet. By the time she reached the end of the list, Credence's own hope had nearly evaporated. Then finally, his number. The very last one she called. 

His heart soared, and his wide, full lips split into the brightest grin of his life. 

Jacob clapped him on the shoulder as the two of them started to rise and gather their things. Credence had only his guitar and crumpled water bottle, which he filled from the fountain beside them. "Congrats, kid!" His new friend proclaimed as he slung his backpack up on his shoulder. "It's not nothin' to make it to the readings. And it's a good thing I gave you my sandwich; you'll be here a while. Don't need you passing out mid-scene, right?" 

"H-how long is a while?" Credence asked, his heart suddenly clenching in fear. He looked over his shoulder at the old analog clock on the wall and did some quick math. He still had a few hours before Ma would start to question. There was no way he was leaving early, not now. But he'd at least like to prepare himself for what he might go back home to. 

"Uh, couple more hours probably," Jacob said with a shrug, sliding one hand into his jeans pocket. "Why, you got somewhere else to be?" 

"No," the boy said with a shake of his head, following after Jacob towards the theater doors. "I just...I just wanted to check." 

"Don't sweat it. Just stick with me, and you'll be alright." Pausing to let Credence catch up, Jacob draped an arm over his shoulder companionably and shook him a little. "I mean, I'm no Daniel Day-Lewis, but I'll at least make sure you don't trip and fall on your face, yeah?" 

Credence couldn't help but laugh, feeling suddenly deplorably small beneath Jacob's larger arm. "Thanks, Jacob. Really." Adjusting his grip on his guitar, the two of them stepped back through the doors with the others into the theater.


	3. Callbacks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The field has been cut down to the last select few, and now Credence has to try something completely new. Cold readings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone who's ever face a cold reading knows you feel one of two ways about them; thrilled, or utterly terrified. <3 Comments, as always, are appreciated!

Inside the theater, the group of actors was herded to the center of the stage. Credence stayed close to Jacob, trying to keep from bumping anyone with his guitar. At the front of the stage was a long table with twenty stacks of papers. “Hello, ladies and gentlemen,” said the same woman as before. “My name is Patrice, and for today, I am your God.”

There was a series of soft twitters from the group. Credence didn’t understand the joke, but he managed a small smile. Jacob noticed his discomfort, and leaned over to whisper “She’s the stage manager. Do exactly as she says, and you’ll make it out alive.”

“Here on the table, you’ll each find a stack of papers with your name on it,” she continued, gesturing to the spread beside her. “These are your sides. The directors who wanted to see you again have given you the scenes they would like you to read, as well as who they’d like you to read them with. In the case of Director Grindelwald’s actors, you will be reading opposite him. Prepare accordingly.” Again there was a round of chuckles, this one somewhat more uncomfortable than the previous. Credence looked to Jacob, who waved him off slightly and mouthed what might have been ‘I’ll tell you in a minute.’ “Come collect your sides. You’ll have ten minutes, and then we will begin with those here for Director Dunlop.”

A flurry of activity as the actors moved forward to collect their pages. Credence hung back, not wanting to be in the way. Once the crowd cleared, there was just one small stack remaining, a little jostled from the others. He scooped up the pages and looked up briefly, trying to locate the directors around the room. They seemed to be in the same places as before; his attention was once again drawn to the man with the blond hair, who was watching him intently. Credence hesitated, eyes lingering on the smug smile that tilted up his lips. Something about the look on his face made his pulse skip, and he turned away abruptly, clutching the papers.

“Hey, Credence!” Jacob called, flagging him down from the back of the stage. “Which ones did you get?” he asked when the boy approached, setting his guitar down against the wall. “I got…uh…Dunlop, Graves, and Tucker.”

Having not looked at his sides yet, Credence flipped through them. “I have…Graves, and…is it Grindelwald?”

“You did?” He peered at the stacks and made a curious noise.

“Is that bad?” Trepidation colored Credence’s words, and he shifted his weight nervously.

“No, it’s just…well, it’s a real poorly kept secret and Graves and Grindelwald hate each other. No one really knows why; most popular reason is something about a stolen girlfriend, but the more likely one is just cuz they’re always competing with each other.” Jacob sat down on the floor again, separating out his pages as he talked. “All the directors work for this theater, which is what’s called a feeder for Broadway. Basically, the six directors out there all put up a project, and the executive producer, Sera Picquery picks the top three. Then out of those, she picks the one that’s going up for Broadway preview. Directors Graves and Grindewald almost always end up top three, and it’s been a long time since someone either than them went up for preview.” Jacob shrugged and picked up his first side for Dunlop.

“So…what does that mean?” Credence asked cautiously. He felt like he should just understand everything Jacob had said, and while he followed everything, he wasn’t exactly sure he knew how that impacted him.

“Means they both want you for their project, which means they’re probably gonna argue about you, if they like how you read,” Jacob said without looking up. “Course that’ll all happen after the auditions, but it’ll be interesting to see what happens.”

“O-oh…” Credence picked up the two sides he had and started to read them cautiously, starting with Grindelwald.

It was a scene from the musical Sweeny Todd. Credence was passingly familiar with it, and he wondered which role the director would want him for. Surely not the lead role; even if he thought he was capable of such a big role, he knew he didn’t have the vocal range for it. He read every word carefully, rolling them around in his mind. It was a scene between a man named Anthony, and an unnamed homeless woman. The lines for Anthony were highlighted, so he assumed those were for him.

After several read throughs in his head, not quite confident enough to say them aloud as he heard other actors doing, Credence set aside those pages and picked up the ones for director Graves. It was a series of stanzas from poetry. He didn’t recognize any of it; his exposure to poetry was slim at best, since Ma thought it a frivolous waste of time. But he liked the way the words flowed in his mind, and more than once, he caught himself whispering them under his breath.

Time passed oddly as he waited in the wings. Credence’s nerves made it feel like every second was a lifetime, and yet when Patrice called his name to read for Grindelwald, he nearly leapt out of his skin. Jacob smiled comfortingly and patted him on the shoulder. “Just go out there and do your best,” he said. “You already made it this far, right? Worst they can do is say no.”

That helped, after a fashion, so Credence stepped onto the stage. A woman stood waiting, dressed much like him; nice pants, a nice sweater, her hair pulled back from her face. She was in her late twenties, if he was to guess, and had a kind, if slightly distant smile. "Hello," she said as he approached, offering a hand to shake. "I'm Susan."

"Credence," he said as they shook hands. She glanced down at the way his other hand shook, the papers crinkling in his grip. Her smile warmed a little, and she patted his shoulder.

"If you're quite finished," came an unamused drone from the audience. Both of them jumped slightly, Credence moreso, and turned to see the man with the bleached hair watching impassively. "Any questions?" Susan shook her head, so Credence followed suit. Even if he had any questions, he wasn't sure how to put them to words, so it was easier to just go with it. "Good. Show me what you've got then." Director Grindelwald looked supremely bored with the entire thing, his ankle still propped up on his knee as before.

Credence nodded nervously and looked at Susan, who smiled again. He watched in fascination as she stepped back from him, curled into herself and became someone entirely other than who she was a second ago. With her shoulders curled up to her ears, back hunched over, he absolutely believed she was no longer a pretty young twenty-something, but a crazy woman who'd been living on the streets. It took him off guard, and he took a hesitant step back, blinking fast. She saw his surprise, and lifted her head just enough to wink at him before settling back. 

Clearing his throat, Credence looked down at his script and decided to give it a go. Licking his lips nervously, he closed his eyes and pulled together an image in his head of who Anthony was. While he had no experience acting on stage, he'd spent his entire life doing exactly that at home. Slipping into the skin of someone else was easier than he expected, and nodded once to Susan before they began.

The scene was short, and Credence was surprised at how comfortable he was filling the shoes of a love-struck young man. Time flew by, and before he knew it, they were finished, and both facing the audience again. Grindelwald was silent for a long moment, tapping his pen against his lower lip. "Have you ever been in love, Credence?"

Caught off-guard by the question, Credence answered quickly. "N-no, sir," he stammered, looking over at Susan, who simply shrugged. 

"Neither has our dear Anthony here," he said with a slow nod. "And now he's just seen the most beautiful creature to ever walk the earth just...appear before him. He knows nothing about her, not even her name, and yet he wants her. Passionately, desperately wants her, in his soul." His words were slow and measured, the faint hint of a Germanic accent giving it a slight tilt. Something about his tone sent a chill up Credence's spine, and he found himself captivated by his words. "Show me that."

There was a brief pause as Credence let that sink in, then nodded. "Yes, sir." He thought he heard something from the audience, like a low growl, but he couldn't be sure. Shaking it off, he looked at Susan and nodded as she slipped back into her own character. They ran the scene again, this time with the boy taking the notes and doing what he thought the director was looking for.

After a second run, Credence and Susan both came back to the center of the stage and waited. The silence dragged yet again before Grindelwald nodded. "Alright, you're finished." He waved them both off, and Susan took off like a shot. Credence blinked after her, then headed back upstage to where Jacob still waited. 

"How did I do?" He asked hesitantly as he sat back down, draining the last of his water and wishing he had more.

"Man, that was great!" Jacob whispered and gave Credence a solid, companionable thump on the back. "You sure this is your first time?"

"Positive," Credence laughed before he picked up his other set of pages for Director Graves. "Hey, what did you get for your readings for Graves?" Something about the older man had put Credence at ease, and for the first time in a long time, he was...comfortable. Maybe even happy, if only a little. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew it wouldn't last, but for now? For now he could lose himself in the moment.

"Uh, I got something from After Apple Picking. What about you?"

"It looks like I've got The Runaway." He read over the poem again, lowering his voice to avoid interrupting the next set of actors on stage. The words flowed so naturally together, almost like a song. Which, he supposed, made sense; songs were simply poetry set to music after all. 

Credence had lost track of time before his name was called again. He shot to his feet and stepped back onto the stage again. "Hello again, Credence," came the familiar, softly Irish voice from the back of the room. A tiny smile ticked up the corners of his lips, and he approached the orange X taped on the floor. "Are you at all familiar with Frost?"

His brows drew down slightly, and he shook his head. "No, sir, I-I'm not."

"That's quite alright," he said with what have been a wave of his hand, it was hard to tell at such a distance. The lamp on the table that Director Graves shared with the woman cast odd shadows up his face, making it difficult to read his expression. His hand seemed to hover beside his face, as if he wanted to run his fingers through his hair but resisted mussing the perfect styling. Instead, he twirled a pencil between his fingers and dropped his hand back to the table. “No preconceived notions. A blank slate, as it were.” There was a pause, the sound of tapping, and Graves nodded. “Show me what you’ve got, Credence.”

Feeling somewhat more confident after his apparent success with his first reading, Credence cleared his throat. He thought he ought to look up more than he looked at the page, and was glad he’d spent so much time with the words. They flowed like water across his tongue, his words finding a natural rhythm.

“Once when the snow of the year was beginning to fall,  
We stopped by a mountain pasture to say ‘Whose colt’?  
A little Morgan had on forefoot on the wall.  
The other curled at his breast. He dipped his head  
And stared at us. And he had to bolt.”

As he spoke, he moved closer to the edge of the stage, drawing in his listeners. Knowing that he was auditioning for the man at the back of the theater, Credence kept his gaze on him. He knelt squatted down a little, one hand reaching out as if to trace the path of the fleeing horse.

“We heard the miniature thunder where he fled.  
And we saw him, or we thought we saw him, dim and grey,  
Like a shadow against the curtain of falling flakes.”

In that moment, swept up in the artistry of the words, Credence paused. He wondered suddenly how it might have felt to be the horse in that moment, terrified of the world, of a thing he couldn’t explain or name. His heart broke for the creature, and his eyes found Director Graves, in the very back of the room. 

“I think the little fellow’s afraid of the snow.  
He isn’t winter-broken. It isn’t play  
With the little fellow at all. He’s running away.”

Perched there on the edge of the stage, feeling like he was on the lip of a precipice, watching this terrified beast, who didn’t know any better, run as if the world was coming crashing to an end. Credence could suddenly sympathize with him, his heart breaking along with it. He had to swallow around a lump in his throat, and the joking in his tone was painfully forced.

“I doubt even if his mother could tell him. ‘Sakes,  
It’s only the weather’. He’d thing she didn’t know!  
Where is his mother? He can’t be out alone.”

Again he had to stop, this time choking back real tears. Credence broke his gaze away from the man in the back, pinning on the seats right at his feet. After several slow breaths, he pushed to his feet and took a step back, distancing himself.

“And now he comes again with a clatter of stone  
And mounts the wall again with whited eyes  
And all his tail that isn’t hair up straight.  
He shudders his coat as if to throw off flies.”

The words tumbled off his lips, coming faster and faster. Credence stopped abruptly, his head moving as if he continued to watch the frantic beast, and wanted so desperately to step in and help but had no idea how.

“Whoever it is that leaves him out so late,  
When other creatures have gone to stall and bin,  
Ought to be told to come and take him in.”

His final words were decisive, falling hard where the rest had been so beguiling before. The silence that followed was immediate and heavy. Credence could hear his heart pounding in his ears, feeling his pulse in his fingertips. He looked around the theater, dazed as if coming back to reality as he clawed up from the mental place he’d gone to.

“Very good,” breathed Graves from the back of the room. “Thank you, Credence, that…that will be all.”

Credence found Director Graves again with his eyes and managed a small, but deeply genuine smile. “Thank _you_ , Mr. Graves,” he said with a bob of his head. Feeling the weight of so many eyes on him, he scurried back to where Jacob sat, flopping down beside him and tucking his knees up to his chest in an attempt to disappear into the black wall behind him.

“Credence, that…” Jacob stared openly at him. “That was _incredible_.”

“R-really?” he asked. Before Jacob could answer with more than an awed nod of his head, Patrice started speaking again.

“Thank you, actors, for your time today. You will be hearing from us in the next few days. Please make sure you’ve left us with contact information on your application.” Credence blanched suddenly, and grabbed up his guitar case before he hurried to Patrice.

“U-um, ma’am?” he said cautiously. She turned and looked down her nose at him, a feat in and of itself since Credence stood a solid few inches taller than her. “I…there isn’t any way for you to reach me, I don’t…I don’t have a phone.”

Patrice’s sigh said a thousand things Credence was suddenly glad she’d chosen not to find the words for. “Come back in three days and ask for me. I’ll let you know if you’re in or you’re out.”

Credence nodded his thanks, took one last look up at the shadow of Mr. Graves at the back wall, who didn’t seem to have moved, and hurried on his way.


	4. Negotiations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Casting is always tricky, especially when more than one director wants the same actor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, conflict. <3 Comments, as always, are appreciated!

Graves had to keep reminding himself to breathe. 

Watching Credence on stage was utterly captivating. Everything else in the world fell away, and there was no one but the two of them as he listened to the cadence of his words, watching the graceful flow of his body. Even as the tears welled in his eyes, the emotion choking his voice, Graves couldn't take his eyes off the boy. It took him longer than he would have liked to admit to remember how to speak again when he was finished. A gentle nudge from Tina had helped, though he'd accidentally broken a third pencil as a result. 

The first he'd lost to general frustration with the whole process, several hours earlier after a string of particularly abysmal auditions. He hadn't heard more than three notes strung together correctly in over an hour, and he seriously considered jamming the pencil into his ear to stifle the sounds. Instead, he'd snapped it in half between his fingers. Tina had jumped in surprise, blinking at him before gathering up the broken pieces from the floor and sliding him a new one. 

The second when Grindelwald was working with Credence. There was something about the way the peroxide hedgehog spoke to him that made Graves want to throw himself across the seats and smother him with his own jacket. Tamping down on that urge had been unusually difficult, and had resulted in a second broken pencil. 

By the time he broke the third, all Tina could manage was an eye roll. "You know, we're going to run out of pencils at this rate, sir," she whispered as the actors started clearing the theater. Graves made a low sound of annoyance but didn't actually argue with her. Patrice was standing at the front of the stage, giving them a twenty minute break before they started negotiations. 

This was always the part Graves loved and hated most. 

He wasn't a needy man when it came to casting; he didn't have to have every sweet little ingenue. To be perfectly frank, he didn't want them. They were a pain in the ass, and often needed far more hand holding than was strictly necessary. On top of that, Graves did his best to avoid projects that required anyone of that sort. His were grittier, darker by nature, and as such rarely needed someone bright and bubbly with eyes full of hope. At least not for long. 

As a result, when it came down to fighting for the fresh talent, Graves often found himself outside of the fray. He'd let the others bicker over the newest faces, the prettiest voices. Instead, he would save his chips for the ones that mattered, the actors with deeper wells to draw on. But what that did mean was when he found one he wanted, he _needed_ them. There were no second choices, there was no plan B. He fought tooth and nail for them, and more times than not walked away with their headshot in his hand, though perhaps a bit bloodied for his efforts. 

On the rare occasions that he lost out, those projects were infinitely more likely to be scrapped even before preview. Graves would be loathe to admit it, but he was as muse-driven as many writers were. And if that connection to the work wasn't there, for him or the actor, then he struggled to maintain the drive needed. They would shuffle along for a few weeks, maybe a couple months, before it simply dissolved into nothing. Once or twice, the substitute had proven worth their mettle, and salvaged the project, but he'd learned not to rely on that. 

Credence was the lynch pin for his project. He was _exactly_ what Graves needed, and no one else would do. His physicality, his temperament, even just that raw talent Graves could see to draw on. No one else would fit. 

And Grindelwald wanted him to. 

Graves' coffee dark eyes stared hateful holes in the back of Grindelwald's head from the back of the theater, his fingers drumming rapidly against his wool-clad thigh. The bastard was a snake oil salesmen, as slimy as they came, and that opinion wasn't solely due to their mutual animosity towards each other. He had seen it in action, and had been the victim of it more than once. 

But not this time. This time, he would win, and get the boy for himself. 

Beside him, Tina was sorting the small stack of headshots she had. "We should talk about which actors-" 

"Kowalski and Barebone," Graves answered instantly. "I don't want anyone else. Just those two." 

"O-oh, ok. Um. Right." Tina flipped through the stack and pulled out the two that Graves had named, glancing sideways at him cautiously. 

"Speak your piece, Goldstein," he said without looking at her, feeling her eyes on him. "You know I hate it when you look at me like that." 

"Oh, no, it's nothing, I just...Credence? Are you sure?" She rested her hand on the boy's application, pitifully empty. Her fingers toyed with the edge of his tiny polaroid, noting how scared he looked even there. "He's inexperienced, I mean, completely. Are you sure he can carry the weight of a whole show?" 

Graves was silent for a long minute, fingers still moving ceaselessly. "Could you take your eyes off of him?" He finally asked, his voice pitched low. 

"What?" Tina was taken off guard by the question and turned to face Graves with a frown. He turned and met her gaze, eyes flat beneath a raised brow. 

"When Credence was on stage. Could you look away, even for a second? Could you _breathe_?" 

"I...uh...well..." Tina stammered over her answer, then finally shook her head. "No, I couldn't." 

Graves seemed satisfied with her answer and looked back at the empty stage, eyes distant. "I need him." Tina knew that look; he wasn't seeing what was, he was seeing what could be. Visualizing the potential of the story that he held in his hands, fragile as a new egg, but full of promise that only he could see. "How's the script coming along?" 

That gave Tina real pause, and she went back to shuffling papers unnecessarily. "It's coming," she said noncommittally in the hopes that Graves would simply accept that answer and move on. In truth, she'd been having a nearly impossible time pinning down the writer, a transplant from London who was notoriously difficult to catch. He'd been in town for a few weeks now, and as of yet, they'd only met in person once. 

He didn't. "Be more specific, Goldstein." 

Tina huffed and tucked her dark hair behind her ear. "Newt isn't exactly easy to reach. I've been calling him every day, but he almost never answers his phone, and when he does, I barely have him for more than a minute or two. He says he's making progress, but I don't...I don't have any real pages yet." Even without looking at him, Tina could feel Graves bristle beside her, and she hastened to add, "He suggested maybe working with the actors on the source material first, to give them a better handle on Frost and his cadence before they actually start working on the play itself." 

This did not improve Graves' mood. In fact, it darkened it. "Next time you speak with Mr. Scamander, tell him to let me do my job, and I'll let him keep his." 

“If you’re all finished,” Patrice called from the stage. Graves snorted again, but was smart enough not to argue. He rose and collected his two headshots as Tina followed after. They all congregated more centrally, and still Grindelwald never moved. 

As with every time before, the other four directors bickered back and forth as they haggled for the actors they wanted. Completely disinterested, Graves perched on the back of one of the chairs, arms crossed over his chest, head down. His fingers drummed against his arm as he waited his turn. 

“Alright, how about Jacob Kowalski?” Patrice asked at one point. There was the sound of shuffling papers as the directors looked through their notes. 

“I want him,” Graves said without moving. Annabelle made an inquisitive sound, shifting in her seat. She had just opened her mouth to argue, but something about the look on the older director’s face stilled her, and she simply shook her head. 

“No objections? Fine then, he’s yours.” Patrice made a note on her pad, and continued down the list. 

For whatever reason, whether strategy or luck, Credence was the last on the list. “The golden boy,” Patrice said wearily. “Who wants him?” 

Graves’ “I do,” was overlapped by Grindelwald’s “He’s mine.” 

“Here we go,” whispered the thin man from before. He settled back in his seat and folded his hands behind his head as if preparing to watch a performance. 

Straightening slowly from the back of his chair, Graves turned to face Grindelwald, who was already facing his adversary. Thin lips curled up under a mustache that matched his hair, unsettling eyes watching the other director carefully, calculating. “I knew we’d end up here,” he purred, shifting his weight. 

“Yes, aren't you a clever bastard,” Graves said with an impatient roll of his eyes. “We both know you’re after the boy solely because you know I want him, too. I saw…six other actors come through that could fill whatever role you’ve got him earmarked for. It’s Sweeny Todd, for crying out loud.” 

“And what makes him so much more important for you then?” Grindelwald responded with a finely arched brow. "If those six boys will work for me, then they ought to work just as well for you, now shouldn't they?" 

"I don't need a lovestruck child," he shot back before he reigned his temper back in. The smug, satisfied look on Grindelwald's face twisted in his gut, but he refused to give the man what he wanted. "I need someone who can give me that vulnerability, while still having a spine to stand up to everything I'm going to put him through. Anthony would be a cake walk for him. Let me give him something to chew on." 

"You really think the boy could stand up to you? Please. You'll chew him up and spit him back out, and not look back at the mark you leave on the floor behind you." Grindelwald leaned forward in his chair, the most engaged he'd been since the auditions started. "Anthony would be a good, smooth way to transition him in. Let him get his feet wet with something that he'll excel at, rather than just break that spine for the sport of it, as you seem so hellbent on doing. We've all seen what happens when you get your teeth in someone who isn't ready for it." His words were sickly sweet, genuine to the rest of the room, but they crawled under Graves' skin like a thousand ants. 

Graves bit hard on the inside of his cheek, tasting the tang of blood. "You're one to talk about the blood trails," he hissed. A gentle touch to his elbow from Tina stilled him, and he drew in a slow breath. "The boy has immeasurable potential, Grindelwald," he said, the hesitation before he used the man's full name almost imperceptible. "Give him to me." 

Grindelwald paused before sitting back slowly. The seconds ticked by, drawn out for the sheer pleasure of waiting to see how long it took Graves to break. In this, though, he would not be broken. Graves simply waited, hands folded behind his back. Finally, the blond pursed his lips. "Mmm...no." 

"God dammit, Grindelwald!" Graves burst, pivoting on his toe and stalking down the aisle. 

"Now children," came a smooth, authoritative female voice from the back of the stage. "There's no reason to throw a fit." Graves' head snapped up to cover his flinch at the razor sharp cut of her voice. Emerging from the shadows was a tall, thin woman of incredible elegance. She wore a flawlessly tailored suit, her black curls swept back from her dark face. "I see we've left the most interesting part until the end. As usual. You're not fooling anyone, Patrice." 

"Good evening, Sera," Graves ground out between his teeth. "So glad you saw fit to grace us with your presence." He bit back whatever else he had to say at the arch of her brow as she stepped up to the edge of the stage. 

"Ms. Picquery," Grindelwald said with a respectful tip of his head. She turned that same look to him, equally displeased. 

"What seems to be the problem then, gentlemen?" Slim hands folded behind her back, Sera commanded the room effortlessly, shifting her attention to Graves when he spoke first. 

"We've come to an impass on the last casting," he said, clearly avoiding looking at his adversary. "Grindelwald and I both want the same actor for our shows, he for Anthony, and I for my lead. He's exactly the puzzle piece I've been looking for, and my show won't carry off without him." 

"You're just being dramatic," Grindelwald accused him, rolling his eyes and speaking up for himself. "At least my script is finished. Do you even _have_ a show yet, Percy?" 

Refusing to rise to the bait, Graves grit his teeth and ignored Grindelwald. "Let me give the boy his shot, Sera. He's better than Grindelwald's show will give him." 

"But I'll give him a finished product. Ten bucks says your show never gets off the ground," Grindelwald pressed. He showed no sign of tension other than a tightening of his fingers around his pencil, foot tapping in the air a little faster than before. 

"With Credence, it will," Graves said as he turned to stare at Grindelwald. 

"Enough," Sera said sharply, cutting them both off. "Graves, where is your script? Truly." 

Graves drew in a slow breath and turned back to the woman on stage. "Halfway done." He ignored the bark of a laugh from Grindelwald. "I expect we'll have something concrete and more complete within the next two weeks." 

"Which means a quarter if you're lucky, and a month minimum." Sera closed her eyes and sighed. "Share the boy." 

Both men looked taken aback by her suggestion. "Wh-what?" Tina stammered for them both. 

"If you wish to cast him for Anthony, then his part is relatively minor, you won't need him every day of the week. And if your play isn't anywhere near complete, you won't need him every day either, because you've got nothing for the boy to do. Share him. I leave it to your ADs to figure out scheduling. Play nicely, or I'll take him from you both. Am I clear?" 

Grindelwald agreed instantly, while Graves was slower. "Fine." He turned over his shoulder to look at Tina. "Handle it." She nodded her agreement and made a note on her pad. Without waiting for a response, he turned back up to Sera. "Are we done here?" 

"Unless you have some pressing business for me, yes." She had barely finished the sentence before Graves was stalking up the aisle to the table at the back. He collected his heavy black wool coat, a flash of white silk as he spun it around his shoulders and shoved his arms through the sleeves on his way out the door.


	5. Not All Homes Are Happy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Credence returns home after the auditions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter involves abuse, and some strong language. You've been warned. <3 Comments, as always, are appreciated!

When Credence stepped out onto the sidewalk after his audition, it was well past dark. The sight of the black night sky overhead hit him like cold water, his heart clenching in his chest. As a result, he missed half of what Jacob said, only tuning back in when a heavy hand lighted on his shoulder. "Hey, kid, you ok?" The man asked, brows raised in genuine concern.

"Wh-what?" Credence stammered, flinching out from under his touch. Jacob looked confused, and a little hurt as he let his hand drop to his side.

"I was just asking if you wanted to catch some dinner," Jacob repeated a little slower. "I know a real good place just around the block, they have a mean sandwich."

Credence shook his head hard and managed an apologetic smile. "Oh. I, uh...thanks, Jacob, but I've really got to get home. Good luck, I hope you get a part." He took a couple steps backwards, bumping into another pedestrian and spinning with another apology before the swirling crowd started to swallow him up.

"You too!" Jacob said as he waved, that look of concern lingering on his face. "Hope I see you around..." But Credence was already gone, and didn't hear.

The theatre they had been in was deep in the East Village, and Credence lived all the way across town in Spanish Harlem. On a good day, it was an hour across town. But as Credence tried to weave his way through the streets towards the subway, he found himself slowed by an unusual clog of pedestrians. It didn't help that he spent very little time at this end of town, so finding his way around took longer than he expected. Once on the subway, though, tucked in the back corner of one of the cars with his guitar propped up between his knees, all he could do was wait. Stacking his slim hands one on top of the other on the top of his case, he rested his pointed chin between the bones of his hand and let himselt drift. 

He replayed every moment of his audition, from singing for the first time, to the rush of performing for a tiny room of people. People he'd never met, and odds were that he'd never see again. But he could say he'd done it. Credence Barebone had gathered up the courage his Ma always said he lacked, and went out to chase a silently hoarded dream. He could still remember the way his pulse pounded in his fingers as he read that poem, the way the room had gone completely silent around him. So what if he didn't get a part?

He'd done it.

Almost two hours after leaving his audition, Credence reached his stop, deep in Spanish Harlem. Walking around at dark, alone and looking as vulnerable as he always did was extremely dangerous, but Credence was well known by the residents, as was his family. As a result, he was left largely alone, not being worth the time to hassle anyway. He made it to the rundown brick buildings of the Wagner community, pushing open the creaking metal gate and dodging around the trash that always littered the grounds. It closed behind him with a crash that made him jump as he stopped and stared up. Windows on the lower floors had bars on them, some with curtains, and others with skewed horizontal blinds. A few were open, out of which he could hear the sounds of shouting, laughing, a baby crying in one.

Despair threatened to crush him, and yet he had no other choice but to put one foot in front of the other.

Adjusting his grip on his guitar case yet again, Credence moved slowly towards the front steps. The building provided shelter from the wind, but it was still cold as he moved through the dingy hallway, bare bulbs flickering in the ceiling. The acrid tang of urine filled his nostrils, and he wrinkled his nose. “Home sweet home,” he muttered. He climbed the creaking wooden stairs slowly, up to the top floor. The carpet under his feet was threadbare, and he dug the keys out of his pocket as he approached the last door at the back of the building. With a steadying breath, he carefully unlocked the door and stepped inside.

In comparison to the rest of the building, the apartment was spotlessly clean. Too clean. It was a small unit, with a living room, kitchen, and three bedrooms that shared a single bathroom. Credence closed the door behind him as quietly as possible. The smell of bleach was stifling, but still not enough to completely mask the urine in the hall.

“You’re late.”

Credence jumped at the soft sound of Ma, turning to find her sitting on the couch with her hands folded in her lap. Her head was down, eyes on the threadbare carpet. “I’m sorry, Ma,” he whispered, setting his guitar down and swallowing hard. He had intended on being home much sooner, and hopefully in time to put the guitar away without her realizing he’d left with it. “I didn’t mean…to be out so late, it took me longer than I expected to get around town.”

“Where were you?” she asked. Her voice was dangerously low, sweet in a way that reminded Credence of those Venus fly traps that lured their victims in before eating them alive.

“I was…I was looking for a job, Ma. We talked about this, remember?” He approached cautiously, hands at his side, fingers fidgeting nervously. “I had to go all over town and talk to people, to see if anyone was hiring…” Ma looked up at him then, her dark eyes flat and disapproving. Credence’s excuses stumbled to a halt, and it was his turn to stare at the floor. “I’m sorry, Ma,” he whispered meekly.

“Why did you take your guitar?” The sweetness suddenly gone, now her words were sharp. She rose from the couch and approached quietly, hands behind her back.

That Credence wasn’t prepared for. His head snapped up, eyes wide as he watched the shorter woman walk towards him on silent feet. “I…I…well I…”

“Don’t you dare lie to me, Credence,” she snapped, now standing an arm’s length from him.

Credence stammered a few more times before his mouth found words that worked. “I…I went to the park, Ma. I wanted…I wanted to play there, maybe…maybe make a little money—“

Fast as a snake, Ma’s hand whipped up from her side and cracked across his jaw. Credence’s head snapped to the side, cheek stinging with the force of her slap. “What have I told you about this foolish notion of performing?” she said. His eyes watered, but he resisted the urge to lift a hand to cup the offended skin; that only resulted in further punishment. Instead, he kept his head turned away. “Especially performing on the streets. Have I taught you nothing? Such…such frivolity is for the lowest of the low.”

“But Ma—“ Credence turned his head back towards her, eyes wide with protest.

Her same hand rose from her side, only to backhand him across the other cheek. The sharp edges of the only ring she wore cut into his lip, drawing blood and forcing a quiet cry from him. “Don’t you _dare_ talk back to me, boy!” Fury rose in her eyes, her cheeks red as she glared dark hate at him. “I will not have you consorting with such…such… _filth_ , contaminating our name! What if someone had seen you? Sitting in the park, playing for money like some kind of…of…AIDS-ridden queer? You _disgust_ me, Credence. I take you in off the street, and this is how you repay me?” Ma stuck her hand out to him, expectant.

Fear filled Credence’s eyes, quickly overtaken by resignation. He knew he shouldn’t have gone, he knew…biting back a sigh, he quickly worked the buckle of his belt loose, folding the worn black leather in half and handing it to her. Ma took the belt and pointed to the bathroom. Out of the corner of his eyes, Credence saw the flash of movement, and turned his head towards the dining room. “Ma, where are the girls?” he asked abruptly.

“Sitting at the dining room table with their Bible studies,” Ma answered. “Come along.” Her hand gestured again towards the bathroom.

Swallowing hard, Credence stepped around her and walked towards the small room, head down. He glanced up quickly as he rounded the old couch, catching sight of three young girls indeed sitting at the table with small, worn bibles and notebooks. One of them, the youngest, looked up only to hiss as her older sister kicked her in the shin under the table. Credence dropped his gaze quickly, not wanting to get them in trouble along with him.

The bathroom was a small space, the scent of bleach stronger in here. Classic white and black tile gleamed almost painfully under the bright light. Credence came to a stop in front of the mirror, avoiding meeting his own pitiful expression in the glass. Ma stopped in the doorway, arms crossed, the belt hanging from her fingers as she waited. “Ma, please,” he asked quietly, but she simply raised a brow. With unsteady fingers, the tall boy shed his blazer and buttoned shirt, leaving himself standing in jeans and a flimsy white tank top. Ma nodded her approval and spun her finger indicating he should turn and face the mirror. She stepped up behind him, looking over his shoulder at their reflection. A tender hand rested on his shoulder, and Credence had to fight to keep from pulling away.

“I do this so you’ll learn, Credence,” she said quietly. “I am disappointed in you, but I do this for you. You understand that, right?” Ma’s voice was heavy with what he guessed she meant to be concern, but it made Credence’s stomach turn.

“Yes, Ma,” he whispered, breaking eye contact and looking down at the floor.

“Good. Count for me.” Taking a step back, Ma adjusted her grip on the belt, and brought the leather down hard against his back. The shirt provided little padding, and Credence’s fingers curled into tight fists as he forced out a quiet, “One.” Ma nodded again, repeating the strike across another part of his back. His back arched this time, feeling a painful sting across his shoulder. 

“Two…”

Again she shifted her grip and lashed out, catching him lower this time. Credence felt the edge of the leather, knowing that one would raise a painful welt.

“Th-three.”

Ma raised her hand again, this time striking him twice fast, not giving him time to recover or consider. This forced a pained whimper from him, and he leaned forward to grip the edge of the sink, knuckles white.

“Four, five!”

The belt hit the floor with a heavy sound, the metal loud against the cold tile. “Clean up,” Ma said disdainfully as she left the bathroom. “Then straight to bed. I don’t feed filth in my house.” Shivering in the cold bathroom, all Credence could manage was a nod as she disappeared around the corner. Tears leaked down his cheeks, landing with wet plops on the floor.

After several minutes to recollect himself, Credence stripped out of the rest of his clothes and turned to the shower. The hot water knob had a padlock on it, and he knew better than to ask her for the key. Instead, he turned the cold water onto full blast and stepped under the icy spray. It felt like needles across his burning skin, making him shiver as he washed up with the astringent soap she kept in the shower for him. By the time he finished, his teeth were chattering, and his skin was red from the layers the soap had taken off.

Wrapped in a towel, Credence scooped his clothes up off the bathroom floor and hurried to his room, which he shared with the oldest of the girls. She wasn’t there, so he dressed quickly in sweatpants worn thin from daily washes, and a t-shirt that tented his thin frame. He draped his towel over the back of his wood chair and crawled between the sheets on his cot, shifting around until he could find the least uncomfortable position for his back on the bed that was six inches too short. He pulled the flimsy blanket up to his chin and closed his eyes, trying desperately to find that feeling of contentment he’d found on stage before drifting off into hunger-induced nightmares.


	6. Unmet Expectations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tina finally manages to meet with Newt, and find out the progress of the script. Nothing goes as she hopes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because who can resist a little fluff? Don't worry, we'll get back to Graves, Grindelwald, and Credence next chapter. <3 Comments, as always, are appreciated!

Two days after auditions, with a production meeting looming that night, Tina set herself up in the lobby of the hotel Newt Scamander had holed up in until more permanent housing could be arranged for him. He had arrived from Liverpool three days ago, and as of yet, she had not managed to arrange a face to face meeting with him. She had barely managed to get him on the phone, to be perfectly honest, and with Mr. Graves breathing down the back of her neck, she was at the end of her rope. So rather than continue to wait for him to return her hundredth message, she decided to hunt him down. 

That had proven trickier than she expected, since it wasn't like the man had provided his travel plans to her. After a dozen phone calls, Tina had finally tracked him down and a quaint little hotel just on the edge of the river in the East Village, just a short walk from the theater they used. After swinging through her favorite coffee shop, Tina set herself up in the lobby with a stack of paperwork to wait. 

It wasn't until past noon that she finally spotted the wayward writer. Tina watched his tall, lanky form weave somewhat awkwardly through the lunch crowd. Newt stood a bit taller than most of the people around him, easy to spot with his mop of reddish blond curls, and a long blue trench coat. He carried a surprisingly large brown leather bag, worn and aged. Quickly stuffing her papers back into her back, Tina shot to her feet and chased after him. If he made it to the street, she wouldn't see him again until he returned. 

"Mr. Scamander!" She shouted, her voice cutting through the din of the lobby. The man froze in his tracks, looking for all the world like a child with his hand in the cookie jar. He spun on his heel, looking for the source of the voice, and spotted Tina making her way through the crowd. His shoulders sagged in resignation, and he adjusted his grip on his bag as he waited. 

"I suppose I should have suspected you would find me here eventually," he muttered as she approached, making a small sound of surprise as she gripped his arm. His voice was soft, with a soft, cultured British accent that made him even harder to hear in the noise. "You don't have to grip me quite so tight, Ms. Goldstein, I won't fly off without you." 

"You have been doing nothing but precisely that for the last three months." Tina's voice was a low his as she pulled him out of the flow of traffic, either ignoring or completely unaware of the stares they were both getting. "It took me camping out in your hotel lobby for me to finally meet you face to face." She let go of his arm slowly before extending the same hand to shake. "Tina Goldstein, assistant director to Director Graves." 

"Ah, of course." Newt switched hands with his bag and took her hand in his. His fingers were long and slim, surprisingly soft and warm as they enveloped her smaller hand. "Newt Scamander, playwright." 

"I know who you are," Tina huffed as she took her hand back. "Where is our script?" 

"Have you eaten lunch yet?" Newt's question was casual, his smile inviting as he tucked his hand into his pocket and shifted his gaze to somewhere just over Tina's left shoulder. She barely resisted the urge to turn and look to see what was behind her, instead keeping her own gaze pinned on his face. 

"Have I...no. I haven't." As if to prove her point, Tina's stomach grumbled loudly, and Newt dipped his head with a smile. 

"Well then, I say we ought to eat. Business should not be conducted on an empty stomach. There's a lovely little sandwich shop just around the corner. My treat." Without waiting for a response, Newt simply turned on his heel and started for the door again. 

Tina stared after him for a moment before muttering something dark under her breath and chasing after him. She slid her hand through his elbow, gripping him maybe a little harder than necessary, but she was concerned he'd take off again. He flinched at the unexpected contact, but managed to resist the urge to pull away. "Fine. But I'm tired of having Mr. Graves breathing down my neck about the script, and you proceeding to completely evade me. Mr. Scamander--" 

"Please, call me Newt," the taller man said as he pushed open the hotel door and let Tina outside. The September air was just a little sharp, that leading edge of fall beneath the warmth of fading summer. 

Tina huffed a sigh and started again. "Newt, please, when can we expect the script? Casting has been finalized, we're just waiting on the last few contracts from actors. We need to start rehearsals, but that's next to impossible to do _without a script_." The longer they talked, the higher Tina's voice crept, her words tumbling faster off her tongue. 

"Ah, well, what about my suggestion--" Newt started, looking towards Tina without making eye contact. 

"What, to read the poetry first? Yes, I've been asked to tell you that you really ought to just leave the directing to Mr. Graves, and focus on writing the script." Something about the tightness in her tone made Newt fully turned his head to look at her, but the flat line of her lips told him it was best not to press the matter. 

"Yes. Well. Ah, here we are." Once again, Newt opened the door for Tina. The scent of fresh baked bread wafted over them, and even Tina had to admit it did smell delicious. "Please, order whatever you like." 

Glaring over her shoulder at Newt, Tina quickly perused the menu before stepping up to the counter and ordering a roast beef sandwich. Newt followed suit with a BLT, then led her over to a booth by the window. "Now. The script," Newt said as they sat down. 

" _Yes_ ," Tina said with exasperated relief. "Mr. Graves--" 

"Is just going to have to wait," he finished for her, nodding his thanks as a waitress brought them two glasses of ice water. 

Tina looked at him like he'd just dumped the entire contents of his glass on her head. "He...but...you've never _met_ Mr. Graves, he doesn't wait for anything." 

"Then I guess he's going to have to learn." Keeping his head down, Newt watched as he dragged his fingers through the condensation on his glass. Once in a while, he would glance up at Tina through the mop of curls on his head, half a smile on his mouth as he chewed on his lower lip a little. 

"You say that from the safe distance of across the city!" Tina protested as she leaned towards him. "How long?" 

"Until it's done? Well, I rather hope it's finished by the time we open." At her explosive groan, Newt couldn't help but smile just a little wickedly. She eyed the look on his face and glared in response. 

"Now you're just teasing me." She leaned heavily on her elbows and buried her face in her hands. "Of course you are." 

"Well, when you make it so easy." Tina's protest was cut off when the waitress arrived with two plates loaded with huge sandwiches and piles of fries. She looked surprised, and thanked her as she set the food down. "Please, Ms. Goldstein, eat. Then we can discuss the script, I promise you." 

Muttering something dark under her breath, she started in on her lunch. In all fairness, it was the first meal she'd eaten all day, and it was quite delicious. They ate in slightly awkward silence, avoiding making eye contact because that would lead to a need to talk. Tina fidgeted anxiously, managing to wait until she had finished half her food before starting in on Newt again. "Mr. Scaman...Newt, I need to know. How much of the script is actually done?" 

Newt paused a moment, popping a fry into his mouth with a heavy sigh before he sat back against the seat. "Define done." 

"Um..." The question seemed to throw her for a second. "I guess...in a state where you would feel comfortable giving it to an actor, allowing for edits to be made?" 

"Oh. Well then more than I thought." He munched on another fry, watching Tina ramp up again. Just before she popped with impatience, he answered, "About half." 

Tina nearly choked on her water, barely keeping it down. "H-half?! You really expect me to go back to Mr. Graves and tell him he's got half a show, and that's assuming you're being charitable?" Bright color was rising in her cheeks, and she placed both palms flat on the table as she drew in a slow, steadying breath. "Mr. Scamander, please--" 

"Really, Ms. Goldstein, Newt is fine." Her use of his last name seemed to bother him as he shifted in his seat. 

"Mr. Scamander," she started again, somewhat more forcefully. "Please tell me you've at least got a plan for the show. Mr. Graves has taken on great personal risk by choosing your show, and is already quite personally invested in it." While this was true, she also knew that he would absolutely skin her alive for taking such liberties, and sharing such private observations. 

"And I am flattered that he has taken such a liking to my idea," Newt said with a tip of his head as he pushed his empty plate aside. "But he does need to understand that I can only work as fast as I have ideas to put to page. I do have a general trajectory for the story, yes. I know how it starts, what happens in the middle, and how it ends. However," he cautioned as Tina perked up, "getting there is the tricky bit." 

Sighing a little dejectedly, Tina sat back in her seat and sullenly munched on a french fry. "Well, can you at the very least give me what you've got so we can get to work? Rehearsals start next week, and we need to have _something_ for them to do." 

"Yes, of course, here you go." Reaching into the bag at his feet, Newt pulled out two copies of the script as it stood, spiral bound and ready to go. He slid them across the table to her, nudging the tips of her fingers until she moved her hands to take them from him. The expression on her face was somewhere between shock, relief, and irritation. 

"You...why couldn't we just _start_ here?" She protested as she took the scripts and tucked them reverently away in her own bag. 

"Well, because if I told you I only had half a script, you would have yelled at me the full distance here about an incomplete script, so I preferred to work there on my own terms, so you might understand what it is I'm working with here." The corner of his wide mouth tilted up a little, and he made fleeting eye contact with her. "Besides, this was entertaining in its own right." 

A heavy sigh was her only answer, but Tina couldn't help but smile a little at him. She ducked her head and picked at a hangnail on her thumb before looking at him fully. "Well, thank you very much, Mr. Scamander. I'll take this to Mr. Graves, and if all goes well, you won't hear him shouting at me from half a city away." In all fairness, he rarely raised his voice; his exasperated sighs and pointed glares were usually entirely sufficient to do the job. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have an irritable director to soothe, and actors to coordinate. Our second production meeting will be on Sunday evening, please by all that is holy will you be there?" She wasn't going to push her luck to try and get him in tonight, that would be foolish. But if she could guarantee his presence at the next one, maybe Mr. Graves would forgive the lack of script...

Newt smiled at Tina and nodded once, a slight bob of his head and made his curls bounce. "Yes, I will. I promise. I'm hoping to have another scene or two polished up for you by then as well." 

"Oh, that would be spectacular!" Tina said brightly as she slid out of her seat and hoisted her bag over her shoulder. She waited for Newt to follow her, but instead he pulled out a notebook full of scribbled notes and lines. "Is that...is that the script?" She asked as she leaned down to peer at his work. 

The notebook was instantly pressed against his chest as Newt leaned away from her. "Ah, yes. But I would prefer it if you wouldn't..." 

"Oh, I'm sorry." Tina instantly pulled away, adjusting her bag with an awkward clearing of her throat. "I didn't mean to pry." 

"It's quite alright, I just...don't like to share before I'm ready." His smile was thin and equally awkward, a purely social function. "I, um...I'll see you on Sunday." 

Effectively dismissed, Tina nodded again. "Right. Sunday. I'll...I'll call your hotel with the time." She hesitated a moment before nodding once more. "Right. Have a nice day, Mr. Scamander." 

"And you, Ms. Goldstein," Newt said as she walked away, waiting until she had actually left the building before laying his book back down. A pen appeared in his hand, twirling between his fingers as he settled himself back in to work.


	7. Choices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Credence is now faced with a decision; which show does he choose?
> 
> Or does he choose both?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Engage creepy Grindelwald. <3 Comments, as always, are appreciated!

Three days after the auditions, Credence made his way back to the theater where auditions had been held. Crafting an excuse for Ma that involved a second round of interviews, he bundled up in a threadbare hoodie and a battered denim jacket. With his hands jammed into his pockets, the young man hunched his shoulders against the brisk fall wind and rounded the corner down the block towards the theater. Just the sight of the brick building, unassuming and tucked back from the busy street, made him smile, and he sped up just a little. 

Trepidation warred with excitement; he desperately wanted to succeed, to be in a play. Even if it was as background, and he got one line, he didn't care. He would be on stage, and it would be a chance to be away from Ma. But at the same time, he worried that he hadn't been cast at all, and then what? One more rejection, one more failure. 

Really why did he expect anything else? 

Pausing outside the heavy wooden doors, Credence took in a slow breath to settle his nerves and pulled open the door. The lobby inside was dark and warm, the sudden contrast making him shiver as the door closed heavily behind him. "Just a minute!" Came a yell from somewhere off to his right, so he stayed where he was, rocking up and down on his toes as he waited. Something crashed, followed by a string of swears and the sound of more things tumbling across the floor. Finally, the face of Patrice, the stage manager from the auditions, popped out of a door. "Oh, it's you. Hello. Just a minute." She vanished again, once again leaving Credence alone. 

Hands still in his pockets, Credence started to walk slowly around the lobby and studied the posters hung on the walls. It was a complete timeline of the last few seasons here at the little theater, an off-Broadway feeder than Credence knew had a history for turning out exceptional works that often made their way to the big stage. Along the back wall was a grid of pictures of the primary staff at the theater, including the producer, and all of the directors. He recognized all the faces, but found himself drawn to two in particular, hanging side by side. 

Director Percival Graves was stoic, face impassive as dark brown eyes stared down the camera as if silently judging it for taking up any more of his time than absolutely necessary. Black hair that glistened like silk slicked back from his forehead, the short cut sides a shimmering silver that caught the light even in a still photograph. He wore a button up shirt of deep slate grey under an impeccably tailored vest, a silver and black paisley scarf draped around his neck. In Credence's neighborhood, that sort of thing would definitely get his ass kicked, but there was an unmistakable air of "don't mess with me" that he imagined would keep Graves untouched no matter where he was. This was the first good look at the man Credence had managed; his seat in the back of the theater had made it nearly impossible for him to make out the man's features. There was something so...compelling about him, and the young man found it difficult to look away. 

Just beside him hung the picture of Director Gellert Grindelwald. That face Credence remembered, with that shock of white-blond hair and those eerie mismatched eyes that seemed to cut straight to the core. Unlike Graves, Grindelwald looked dangerously amused, like he knew a secret that he was taunting you with. In his picture, he wore a dark blue button up shirt that drew attention to his single silver-blue eye, the top several buttons undone with a pinstriped black blazer over it. It lent an air of a mob boss to the whole thing, and was equally fascinating. 

Beneath each picture was a brief description of their histories as directors. Credence was halfway through Grindelwald's biography when he heard someone clear their throat behind him. Jumping out of his skin, the young man spun and looked impossibly guilty. "I'm sorry," he stammered, fingers twisting together nervously. "I-I hope you don't mind, I was just--" 

"You're fine, Credence," Patrice said with a wave of her hand. "They're here to be read, after all. Come on, they're waiting for you." She turned on her heel and headed down the hall he'd waited in a few days before. 

"They?" Hurrying along behind her, Credence caught up quickly thanks to his long stride. He tugged at the collar of his jacket and suddenly worried he was underdressed for...whatever was about to happen. "Wait, did I get a part?" 

"That's not for me to say," answered the stage manager cooly, though she did offer a comforting smile over her shoulder. "Relax, Credence, you're not in trouble or anything." 

_That's new,_ Credence thought bleakly as he fell in step behind her. She led him past the theater and into the back of the building. At the end of the hall, he could see a cracked door, from which the sounds of tense conversation floated out. Too nervous to pick up the content, even he could read in the tone of their voices that neither person wanted to be having that conversation. Patrice knocked on the door to announce their arrival, then pushed it open for him. "Go on in, sweetie," she said quietly, nudging his lower back encouragingly when he hesitated. "You'll be fine." Swallowing hard, Credence nodded and stepped inside. 

He found himself in a small office that was remarkably full of people. Behind the fine dark wood desk against the far wall was a supremely elegant woman, her dark skin flawless and beautifully complemented by her low cut red dress. Credence did his best not to stare, instead looking to see both Director Graves and Director Grindelwald also in the room. They were across from each other, as far apart as they could reasonably get; Grindelwald almost sprawled in the center of an antique couch with soft brocade fabric and polished wood details while Graves leaned against a bookshelf, arms crossed in deep irritation. "Ah, Credence, good morning," the woman behind the desk said smoothly. "My name is Sera Piquery, I'm the executive producer here, you can call me Sera. Can I get you anything to drink?" 

"N-no, ma'am, I'm fine, thank you." Impossibly uncomfortable being the center of attention, Credence curled his fingers into tight fists in his pockets and hunched his shoulders up to his ears. Dark eyes darted first to Grindelwald, who was watching him like a cat with the cream, then over to Graves, who had that same implacable, flat stare as in his picture. Unsure of where to direct his attention, the young man decided that the floor between his shoes was an excellent choice, and bit down on his tongue to stop his awkward stammering. 

"Relax, my boy," Grindelwald purred, shifting just a little on the couch. Credence looked up at the blond man with a thick swallow, finding a surprising comfort in the timbre of his low voice.. "You're not in any trouble. Just the opposite, in fact." From behind him, he was fairly sure he could hear some kind of noise of irritation, but when he turned to look at Graves, there had been no change. 

"What do you mean, sir?" 

"You're here because you're a little _too_ popular." Grindelwald's voice was slick, coiling around Credence like a snake that he couldn't decide if he liked or not. A shiver chased down his spine at the visual that created, and he distracted himself by focusing on his words rather than his tone. 

"I still don't--" 

"Oh for God's sake, you pompous pincushion, you’re confusing him," Graves said with a heavy sigh of exasperation. "Credence." He waited for the nervous man to turn to face him, noting the fear and confusion stamped across his face. "We asked you to come speak with us because we both want to cast you in our shows." A dismissive wave of his hand encompassed Grindelwald into the 'we', though he didn't so much as spare the man a glance. “As it stands, you have three—well, four choices.” Credence drew in a slow breath and nodded in the pause, ready for his options. “You can pick my show, which is what you ought to do, you can pick his show, you can pick both shows…or you can pick neither show.” 

"I'm hurt, Percy," Grindelwald interjected, one foot tapping on the floor. "Besides, you really shouldn't lie to the boy. We all know your little pet project isn't going to make it past the first round of culling, so why waste this sweet boy's time and energy when it could be spent on a much better show?" 

Graves looked like he was about to cross the room and throw Grindelwald over the back of the couch, but Sera spoke up. "Enough." Her voice was quiet, but powerful in a way that silenced both men without any argument. Credence's attention was drawn to her instantly, eyes wide and overwhelmed. "Don't mind them as they bicker like children, but Graves is right. Both directors would like you in their shows, and it's up to you which, if any, of the projects you accept. One, both, or neither. It's up to you." 

Credence had rarely been faced with so many choices, much less so many _good_ ones. He licked his parched lips nervously, once again staring down at the carpet between his shoes. "I...um...well, what..." Clenching his jaw, Credence closed his eyes and tried to focus. "How much time would it take to do both?" 

"At the beginning, each show will rehearse a couple days a week," Sera explained as she sat back in her chair, keeping half an eye on each of the directors. "As open approaches, the directors will need to properly coordinate to ensure that you are not overtaxed. In the end, only one of the shows will be fully produced, however, so there won't be any long term scheduling conflicts." Her dark eyes pinned Credence where he stood, intense but not unkind. "It will be difficult, and taxing. If you choose to do both, you will be expected to keep up." 

Credence's mouth was suddenly dry. He wanted this so desperately, to have a place where he belonged. And not only that, but two directors wanted him; _two_. It was more than he could have dreamed in a million years. Rubbing his palms along the outsides of his thighs, the young man took a slow breath and nodded a little unsteadily. "Yes, ma'am. I'd like...I'd like to do both if I could." 

On the couch, Grindelwald relaxed visibly, his mouth settling into a comfortably confident smirk. Graves merely nodded and straightened from his perch. "Fine then. We'll work out a schedule with our ADs, and you'll be called with--" 

"Um." Credence interrupted him quickly, dropping his head when Graves snapped his attention to him. One dark brow was raised to his hairline, and he looked unimpressed but expectant. "I'm sorry, Mr. Graves, but I don't...I don't have a phone." 

"Not at all?" The older man looked as baffled as he sounded. All Credence could do was shake his head, hands returning to his denim jacket pockets. Graves pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed heavily. "Right. Fine. Well then, show up here Monday morning, and one of us will be here to begin rehearsals." Pivoting on the toe of his shoe, Graves strode quickly out of the office, his mutter floating back, "Who the hell doesn't own a phone?" 

"Don't mind him," Grindelwald said smoothly as he rose from the couch and crossed to Credence, who looked all the world like he wished to disappear into the floor. "He's a crotchety old man who doesn't know how to connect to people. It's nothing personal." One surprisingly warm hand ran down the back of the smaller man's arm, feeling the faint tremble beneath his clothes. "Hush now, my boy. I'm honored you chose to work with me." Credence settled under the unfamiliar tender touch, his brown eyes shifting to watch that hand run the length of his arm. "We'll do so many wonderful things together." 

"I-I look forward to it, sir," Credence answered in a soft whisper. At this range, he couldn't miss the soft hiss as Grindelwald inhaled quickly, his eyelids just barely fluttering closed. "I should...I need to..." 

"Yes, of course." The blond hand instantly stepped away, the tips of his fingers barely brushing along the center of Credence's palm before disappearing into his pockets. "It wouldn't do to keep you." 

Swallowing hard, Credence nodded once to Grindelwald, then looked to Sera, who's expression was cold and unreadable. "Thank you for the opportunity, Ms. Sera," he said politely. Her lips turned up in what might have been a smile except for the fact that it didn't reach her eyes. 

"Of course, Credence." That seemed a fairly conclusive dismissal, so Credence hurried out of the office, aware of the eyes on him as he disappeared down the hall.


	8. First Rehearsal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Graves brings together his cast and crew for the first time, and explains the story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hooray, we get to meet Queenie! There may be some bigger time skips now, no reason to walk you through every step of the rehearsal process, since that also involves actually writing a script, which...no. <3 Comments, as always, are appreciated.

The morning of his first official rehearsal, Credence woke several hours earlier than necessary. He'd completed his daily chores quickly and left in a rush, claiming not wanting to be late for his first day of work. While the not being late part was true, he let the rest slide as a little white lie to keep him sane. The subway ride across town simultaneously dragged and flew, and at last he reached the stop in the West Village. By the time he arrived at the doors of the theater, there was still over an hour before anyone else was due to arrive. Prepared with a book and a thick scarf to fight off the chill his ever-present acid washed denim jacket couldn't quite beat, Credence sat down on the cold concrete beside the doors and waited. 

He didn't have to wait long. Striding up the street as if he simply expected everyone around him to move, Director Graves parted the crowds like the seas. People moved away from him in waves, giving him and his billowing wool coat a wide berth. Beneath it, he wore dark jeans and a silk dress shirt in a slate grey with a black vest shot with thin silver pinstripes that caught the eye. The outfit was completed with a blue grey scarf that was wrapped halfway around his neck, on tail hanging down his chest while the other hung down his back. Both hands were tucked into the deep pockets of his coat, and he stopped suddenly at the sight of Credence, sitting in a tightly curled ball up against the wall. "Credence?" He asked, surprised. 

Credence perked up at the sound of his name, eyes wide as if he was afraid he'd done something wrong. "Oh, uh...good morning, director," he stammered, immediately closing his book and standing up. Graves raised a brow at him, clearly baffled by his behavior. "I got here early, so I just thought I'd..." 

"Sit out here in the cold and freeze when there's a perfectly good set of chairs inside out of the wind?" Graves supplied, his eyebrow arching higher. "The door is unlocked, you know." The corner of his lips curled up into a bemused smirk as Credence blinked as if it hadn't even occurred to him to check the door, because it honestly hadn't. When he didn't move to open the door, Graves rolled his eyes and opened one of the doors for him. "In." The movement startled him to action, and Credence hurried inside. 

It was indeed warmer inside, and Credence immediately shuddered at the temperature change. Just behind him, Graves had to tamp down hard on the instinct to offer the boy his scarf or coat or...something to warm him up. Clearing his throat, Graves stepped quickly past him. "Feel free to wait here in the lobby for the others, I'm sure they'll be around soon." He took several steps down the hall, pausing just at the corner to turn back. Credence was looking curiously around the room, rubbing his hands together to try and warm them as he looked for a chair. God but the boy looked so thin. Even from across the room, he could spot the telltale shiver of his slim shoulders. His fingers drummed against the side of his leg, and he rounded the corner with an abrupt twirl of his coat. 

Unaware he had been watched, Credence found a seat near the heater and sat down. Taking up a very similar position to the one outside, he tucked his feet up onto the chair and curled into a small ball as he opened his book again, balancing it on his knees. Several minutes passed, and he was slowly beginning to thaw out when he was suddenly aware of Graves standing over him again, now without his wool coat so Credence could see the fine fit of his shirt, the way his vest was snug against him. His attention was momentarily, oddly captured by the sight of him, only pulled away when the director cleared his throat and held out a steaming mug of hot cocoa to him. 

"Here," Graves said without further explanation. Credence reached up and cautiously took the mug, careful of the hot porcelain. In the process, his book tumbled to the floor despite his halting attempts to both catch it, and not spill the cocoa. A wave of Graves' hand stopped his fumbling as he bent down and collected the battered book. Wide eyes watched him move, all enviable confidence and grace. Realizing he hadn't actually taken a sip of the drink, the young man took a sip and sighed happily. 

"Oh, this is delicious, thank you," Credence said with surprising earnest. Standing again, Graves raised a brow at him, suddenly curious if he'd ever even had hot cocoa before. 

"It's...just the powdered cocoa, Credence. Nothing exciting." Eyes still on the young actor, his thumb brushed slowly across the worn cover of the book he'd retrieved, and after a moment, he looked down. It was a collection of Robert Frost poems, the pages dog-eared and battered. There were notes scrawled in the margins in a few different hands, as if the book had been passed down a few times. 

"After auditions, I...I um, went down to the used bookstore and picked up a copy of some of his poems, you know, to, um...to get to know his work better." Credence fidgeted uncomfortably, eyes on the steam curling up from his mug and a frown on his face as if he feared retribution. 

Graves flicked his wrist a little, causing the book to bobble up and down as he studied the look on Credence's face. There was far more to this boy than met the eye. "Good," he said brusquely as he thumped the book back against Credence's thighs and let the book slide back into his lap. "I appreciate that kind of dedication." Tucking his hands into his pockets, he turned away and headed back down the hall. "Call is in an hour." With that, he disappeared down the hall towards his office. 

Left alone with his cocoa and his book, Credence settled back in to wait. It wasn't long before a few more actors started to trickle in, in ones and twos. Some eyed him curiously, a new face among the crowd, but no one actually approached him. Not until Jacob arrived, at any rate. A particularly enthusiastic gust of wind followed after the large man, crashing the door open and dramatically announcing his arrival, much to his chagrin. "Uh...hey," he said with a slightly awkward wave, though his face brightened at the sight of the young actor. "Credence! Hey!" He hurried over to where the startled young man sat, plopping heavily down into the chair next to him. "I'm so glad to see you here, man!" 

Credence was instantly overwhelmed by Jacob's enthusiasm, nearly dropping his book again as he dropped his feet to the floor. "Oh, h-hi, Jacob," he said with a small, if genuine smile. He let the book fall against his stomach as he turned his attention to his new companion, still curled up in a tight ball with both hands wrapped around the mug. "I'm glad to see you, too." 

"So you got the gig with Graves, huh?" Jacob let his bag slide to the floor beside his leg and settled in comfortably. 

"Actually...I got them both." Hunched down over his mug, Credence looked very much like he was trying to make himself as small as possible, though there was just a fraction of a smile on his lips. He was proud of himself, but didn't know how to manage it, so simply bottled it up. 

"Really?!" Jacob snapped his teeth shut when his loud exclamation drew the startled attention of the others gathered, and he leaned in with a conspiratorial whisper. "That's incredible, man! You're going to be completely exhausted, but that's still really awesome. Do you know what parts you got?" 

"No, should I?" Credence worried at his lower lip, lifting the mug to hide his blush at the revelation of his inexperience. 

"Nah, not necessarily. I mean, sometimes they'll tell you, but usually you find out at first rehearsal. They hand out scripts, we do a read through, that sort of thing. But since this is a new script we're workshopping, that might actually be different. I don't know." Jacob shrugged one shoulder and opened his mouth to ask something when Patrice opened the doors to the theater, drawing the attention of those gathered, in all a group of ten. 

"Good morning, everyone. If you'll follow me." Propping the doors open, Patrice stood aside as the actors filed in, sparing Credence a small smile as he passed. He followed the crowd, taking a seat in one of the rows beside Jacob. Any conversation hushed as they realized that Director Graves stood at the lip of the stage, hands in his pockets. He cut a rather intimidating image up there, expression smooth as he watched them all settle in. 

"How many of you have workshopped a new play before?" he started without preamble. There was a brief pause, then five or six of the actors raised tentative hands, glancing around at the others. "Good then. More than half. My name, as you know, is Director Graves, and you have the dubious honor of working with me for the next foreseeable future." There was a hushed titter of laughter which died out quickly when Graves' expression didn't change. "For those of you who have never done a project like this before, it's an entirely different beast. I'm sure you were expecting to arrive today, be handed a script with your part written on the front, maybe do a read-through. That is very much not what's going to happen today." 

Credence shifted in his seat as he listened to Graves talk. The man's voice was quiet yet commanding, filling the space with little actual effort. Smooth as silk, it overlaid a roughness that intrigued and captivated the ear and drew the listener in. Even though he hadn’t moved, Credence couldn’t take his eyes off of the director, noting the way he held himself, the set of his shoulders, his wide, confident stance. He couldn’t explain it, but the man was absolutely fascinating. 

“As it stands, we do not have a full script.” This admission seemed to take the group by surprise; there was a quiet shuffling and murmuring, which Graves let go for a moment before continuing. “We do, however, have a concept. But our playwright is…mmm…flighty. As playwrights tend to be.” There was a low sound of agreement from behind them, and Credence glanced behind him to spot a young, anxious-looking woman in a large grey sweater with an angular black bob, who was taking quick notes as Graves spoke. Realizing she had been noticed, she lifted her pen in greeting before resuming her work. “Ah, right. Tina Goldstein, assistant director. What she says goes, so long as it doesn’t contradict me. You will respect her the same way you do me, am I clear?” He waited for the group to nod. “Good. Now. The script. We have bits and pieces pulled together that we can start to work with, as well as a general concept, but no, we could not put her on her feet.” 

Now Graves began to pace. Not far, but he followed the edge of the stage with his hands still in his pockets. The slow movement caused the end of his scarf to flutter slightly, curling around the edge of his body like air made visible. “How many of you are familiar with the works of Robert Frost?” This time, less hands raised, only three or four. Graves didn’t look surprised by this, merely looking back down at the stage as he walked. "I assumed as much. Ms. Goldstein, if you wouldn't mind." Tina stepped forward and started handing out small books to each of the actors. "The working title of the show is The Runaway, which is based loosely on the so-named poem by Frost. It is, in case you had not been paying attention, the same poem some of you received for your audition." Graves glanced briefly at Credence, who was currently accepting the new book from Tina reverently. A flicker of a smile tugged at his lips; the boy was so genuinely enthusiastic about everything, it was fascinating to watch. 

"The idea is to take pieces of classic poetry, think Keats, Frost, Whitman, Dickinson, Marlowe, and weave them together. In it, we meet a young, naïve man who's been orphaned, and is unprepared for what the world has to offer him. He has to learn fast who he is, and how to stand up for that." Again Graves looked at Credence, who was now watching him. Their eyes met, and for the briefest of seconds, the director could have sworn they were the only two people in the room. "It's a story of self discovery, and learning to be just who you are, at any given time, no matter what anyone else tells you." 

One heartbeat, two, then Graves forced himself to look away with a deep inhale. "The books you hold in your hands are a collection of some of the poems that we will be using for this show. Familiarize yourself with them, discern their meaning. I expect you to be able to speak comfortably about them." From the wings, there was the sound of heels on wood, drawing Graves' attention. A surprisingly warm smile flashed across his face before vanishing again. "Before we get to work, I'd like you to meet your costumer." 

From between the long black curtains of the legs stepped a stunningly beautiful woman. Petite, slender, curved in all the places one would expect, she had perfectly styled red-blonde curls, brilliant blue eyes, and a smile that felt like an intimate hug. The dress she wore was cut from what looked like high quality blue silk, floating away from her body in ways that made Credence's mouth go just a little dry to watch. "Oh, good morning!" She said cheerfully, waving at the actors as she stopped next to Graves. Beside him, Credence felt Jacob stiffen in surprise as he forgot how to breathe. "I'm Queenie. It's a pleasure to meet you. I'm sure we'll get to know each other real well." Her sweeping gaze paused briefly on Jacob, a tiny giggle escaping her lips before she turned to Graves. "I'm sorry, honey, I didn't mean to interrupt. I was just hoping to watch your first rehearsal, get a feel for the show." 

One dark brow arched high over Graves' brown eyes. "You know we don't have a script, Queenie." 

She waved him off as if that was the least of her concerns. "Oh, I know. But I want to see how your people move, who they are. The things that you pay me to worry about." Winking at him, Queenie placed a delicate hand on his elbow and squeezed companionably. Something about the gesture made Credence suddenly, and unexpectedly, assume that the two of them were together. This thought twisted in his chest for a second, but he had no idea why. Instead of lingering on it, he shook it off and watched the beautiful woman descend the stairs and join Tina in the audience. It was then that he noticed the utterly awe-struck look on Jacob's face. Despite his inexperience in such matters of the heart, even Credence could tell the poor man was utterly smitten. The sight of it made Credence laugh, which shook his new friend out of his daze and shove at the younger man's thin shoulder. 

"Not a word out of you," he hissed as they both turned their attention back to Graves. 

"Read alone, in groups, whatever suits your style," Graves was staying, having planted himself again at the center of the proscenium. "We'll come back together in an hour to read a few aloud, and discuss them. Yes, I realize this sounds like high school lit all over again. Get used to it." This time, Graves managed to crack a smile at his own joke, encouraging a quiet laugh from the group. The sound seemed to please him, and some of the tension faded from his stance. "I know the things you've heard about me," he said after a moment, taking the time to meet the eyes of each person gathered below him. "And much of it is true. I am difficult, I am demanding, and on more than one occasion I've been called an asshole. But understand this; we are working together to create art. You cannot do this without me, and I cannot do this without you." Again Graves held Credence's eyes for just a fraction of a second longer. "I will push you, I will ask more of you than you think you can give me. But you'll give it to me, and I promise you, it will be worth every tear, every curse, and every sleepless night. Because I'm just as in this as you are." He paused, then nodded once. 

"Let's get to work."


	9. Secrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rehearsals with Director Grindelwald are set to begin, and tensions flare between the two directors. But why?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poetry courtesy of Robert Frost. I apologize for the delay between chapters, I'm working on three pieces along with oodles of other things. But fear not, I have four chapters down the road pre-written, so the wait won't be so onerous in the future. <3 Comments, as always, are appreciated!

Two days after his first rehearsal with Director Graves, Credence returned to the theatre for rehearsal with Director Grindelwald. Once again, he arrived vastly too early, but this time he knew the secret, and rather than waiting on the cold sidewalk, he curled back up in his chair from before. Knees tucked up to his chest to fend off the chill, Credence perched his poetry book on his knees, pencil in hand to take scrawled notes in the margins.

So absorbed in his reading, silently mouthing the words as he read them, Credence didn't notice when the door opened, nor when someone stepped up beside his chair just over his shoulder. "Robert Frost," drawled the low, slightly accented voice of Grindelwald, an almost sinister purr in his ear. "Interesting choice."

Credence jumped in surprise, dropping the book and pencil as his head whipped around. He found himself nose to nose with the older man, staring into his mismatched eyes. "O-oh, h-hello, Director," he stammered as he blinked. "I didn't hear you come in, I'm sorry." He made to stand up, but Grindelwald stalled his actions with a small wave of his hand. 

"No need to stand, my boy, you're perfectly alright." Moving with fluid grace, Grindelwald stepped around the edge of the chair and knelt at Credence's feet, scooping the book and pencil from the floor. With a glance at the younger man for permission, he flipped open the book and skimmed a few pages. "This must be for Percy's play." Credence frowned at the unfamiliar name, and the blond's thin lips curled up into half a smile beneath his mustache. "Director Graves."

"Oh! Yes, it is." Fidgeting a little in his seat, Credence eyed the book with some consternation. Something about the way Grindelwald caressed the pages, turned them with a slow delicacy, made him uncomfortable for reasons he couldn't quite explain. The movement was both seductive and sinister, and despite himself, Credence couldn't tear his eyes away. "We don't have a script yet, so we're just reading some of the poetry that's going to be used, to...to get used to it..." He wasn't sure why he was explaining the situation to the other director; he felt like there was some kind of hostility between the two of them he couldn't quite place. He should just keep his mouth shut, but there was something about the piercing way the man on his knees looked at him that just compelled him to talk.

"Is that so?" Grindelwald's voice was still that soft, enticing purr, and he slid the book back into the boy's lap. "Would you read me some?" His fingers lingered on the outside of his thigh, a light caress that made Credence shiver as goosebumps rose on his skin.

A hot blush pricked Credence's cheeks, and he took the book back tentatively. "R-really?" The only response Grindelwald gave was a twitch of his brows, sinking his weight down onto his haunches as if settling in to listen. Credence cleared his throat and flipped the book open to the poem he'd been reading when the director had approached. The tip of his pink tongue darted out to wet his lips before he picked up where he left off.

"Now no joy but lacks salt  
That is not dashed with pain  
And weariness and fault;  
I crave the stain

Of tears, the aftermark  
Of almost too much love,  
The sweet of bitter bark  
And burning clove.

When stiff and sore and scarred  
I take away my hand  
From leaning on it hard  
In grass and sand,

The hurt is not enough:  
I long for weight and strength  
To feel the earth as rough  
To all my length."

All semblance of nerves melted away as Credence started in on the poem. His words were soft, a tender cadence that naturally fit the timber of his voice. Once finished, he drew in a slow breath, as if coming back into himself, and glanced up over the edge of the book at Grindelwald. The older man was perfectly still, listening with rapt attention to every word he said. "Poetry suits you," he whispered, his hand drifting down from Credence's knee, where it had stayed during the reading, to wrap around his ankle in a gesture that was both tender and possessive. 

Credence's eyes widened as he watched the trail of that hand, words stuck in his throat. The room suddenly felt much warmer than it had before, and he had conflicting instincts to both pull away from the unexpected touch, and to lean into it. "You think so?"

"I wouldn't have cast you if it didn't." A new voice, this one thick with annoyed displeasure. Credence gasped and jerked his leg to pull it away from Grindelwald, guilt written plain on his face. The hand on his leg tightened, keeping hold as the blond man turned calmly to look up at Graves, who stood across the lobby in the hallway. His heavy brows were drawn down in a frown that was directed straight at Grindelwald, who for his part looked completely unfazed.

"Ah, good morning, Percy," he said cheerily, his thumb tucking up under Credence's jeans to drift back and forth across the front of his shin. The unexpected intimacy of the gesture made the younger man gasp softly, his eyes fluttering shut. Both men noticed; Grindeldwald's grin sharpened, while Graves bristled visibly. "Did you enjoy our little...impromptu show?" 

"Gellert, get your--" Graves advanced a step on the two of them before the front doors suddenly opened, a small group of actors flowing in. He froze and dropped his hands to his side, biting back the venom on his tongue. "Can I speak with you? Privately?" Graves' voice was frigidly cold, drawing the attention of the newly arrived actors.

Grindelwald rose smoothly, letting his hand drift away from Credence. The loss of contact drew an almost inaudible sigh from him, and blinked unsteadily. "But of course, Percy. Anything for an esteemed colleague." Slick smile still in place, he leaned down to cup the back of Credence's head and pull him in close. He could feel the boy tense against him, pulse flickering just under the pad of his thumb. "Thank you for sharing that with me, my boy," he whispered as he savored the shiver he felt beneath his hand. "You are a very special boy indeed, and I look forward to working closely with you." His thumb brushed along Credence's jaw before he pulled away, noting with a flash of satisfaction the way he instinctively followed after the touch, craving more. That feeling only deepened as he turned to Graves, who looked about ready to choke him with that damn scarf he always wore. "I have a few minutes before rehearsal begins, why don't we speak in your office?" 

Without answering, Graves pivoted on his toe and stalked down the hall, the tails of his scarf fluttering angrily as he walked. Grindelwald followed at a more sedate pace, and a few moments later, the sound of a slammed door echoed back down the hall to the puzzled actors in the lobby. 

The office itself was a small space, but tastefully decorated dark wood tones. Graves crossed to his desk and stood behind his chair, leaning both hands on the leather back. His fingers bit into the chair, as if he was taking his frustrations out on the furniture rather than Grindelwald's neck. "What the hell do you think you're doing, Grindelwald?" Graves' voice was tight as he did his level best to maintain control. Normally a man with an impeccable public image, there was just something about the blond that crept under his skin.

"Just getting to know my actors better, Percy," answered Grindelwald with practiced ease. "Isn't that step one in the Being A Good Director Manuel?"

"Don't get cute with me," Graves shot back, voice dripping with acid. "That boy is completely naïve, and you leading him on like that will only cause him more pain in the future. I've seen you do it before."

"Because keeping the boy out in the cold and isolated is so much better for him?" Moving slowly into the office, Grindelwald placed both hands on the desk, leaning towards Graves. "Which would you have preferred?"

Graves bit back a snarl that built in his chest, nails cutting half circles into the supple leather of his chair. “Don’t make this about us.” His voice dropped to a rough whisper, eyes hard as they stared at the man across the desk. Strong personalities warred in silence, smug against stone cold. 

“Oh, but Percival, it’s _always_ about us, isn’t it?” He stretched one arm forward across the smooth mahogany, fingers splayed as if reaching for him. “Every look, every word…it’s all wrapped up in _us_.”

Graves straightened abruptly, fighting back the rising color in his neck. “Leave Credence out of this, Grindelwald,” he hissed, “or I swear to God, I’ll—“

“You’ll what? Tattle on me to Mama Piquery?” Scorn was thick on his words, and Grindelwald pushed off the desk, fingers tracing slowly along the edge as he came around to face Graves. Now with nothing between them, they stood nose to nose, Graves refusing to give any ground. “Outing me means outing yourself, you know that, right?” His fingers caught on a pen, which he ran up the outside of Graves’ bare arm, sleeves rolled up to the elbow. “Didn’t we agree to keep that…secret…?”

Graves jerked his arm away at the first touch, both hands finding purchase in the front of Grindelwald’s sweater. A quick pivot, and the blond man was slammed against the wall behind the desk, pictures rattling on their hooks. “Don’t you touch me, and don’t you touch _him_.” Pent up anger flooded his words, intensifying at the widening smirk on Grindelwald’s face.

“So protective of your new little pet.” A teasing sing-song, made all the more sinister by just a hint of an accent. “We’ll just see who he chooses in the end, now won’t we?” Grindelwald huffed the barest laugh as he felt Graves shift his weight forward, then a tentative knock at the door.

“Mr. Graves?” The cautious voice of Credence shattered the tension between them, and Graves released Grindelwald as if he’d been burned.

“Yes, Credence?” he called back, smoothing his vest and stepping deliberately away from Grindelwald, who also settled his own clothing. The door creaked open as Graves ran a hand over his hair and blanked his expression. “What is it?”

“I-I’m sorry to interrupt, but…Patrice is looking for Director Grindelwald.” Coffee dark eyes shifted between the two men. A tiny furrow appeared between his brows as he picked up on something in the room, but couldn’t quite put a name to it. “She says it’s time to begin.”

“Yes, of course, my boy,” Grindelwald said with a kind smile. “Thank you for your time, Percy. I look forward to speaking with you again.” Coming around the desk, he placed a gentle hand at the small of Credence’s back and guided him back into the hall, tossing a last wink over his shoulder at Graves before disappearing down the hall.


	10. Chemistry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rehearsals have been progressing well for both plays, but something fundamentally...changes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for my silence, my darlings! But now we head into a quick stream of pre-written chapters, so hang onto your hats. And don't hate me too much.

Credence fell easily into a pattern. Rehearsal with Director Graves three days a week, rehearsal with Director Grindelwald three days a week, and one day off. He dreaded those days, when he was trapped at home with Ma and his sisters, but it was Sunday, so there was no avoiding it. 

But the days he spent in the city at rehearsal were his everything. He lived for the time spent on stage, delving into his characters. His fellow actors quickly became the first friends Credence had ever known, particularly Jacob. Apparently the larger man was quite the baker, and would often bring treats in to rehearsal. Director Graves scowled at him, but Credence had seen him more than once sneaking a pastry when he thought no one else was looking. 

He liked working with both directors, but they had very different styles. Graves was brusque, clear in his expectations but letting the actors get there on their own. Often times, the only note he would give was a simple, "Try something else," pushing Credence to come up with yet _another_ way to read a line. He was occasionally prone to fits of temper, but they were short-lived, and tempered with rare but genuine praise. Credence could always tell when he'd done well when the light in Graves' dark eyes would change just a fraction, and the corner of his lips would tilt up just past neutral. That look always made his heart skip, and he fought to keep that look on his face as often as possible. 

On the other hand, Grindelwald had a much smoother approach. Credence didn't think it would be quite fair to compare him to a used car salesman, but others had no such compunction. But Director Grindelwald was very often a little too close, a little too friendly. It simultaneously made Credence nervous, and yet...excited? He couldn't quite place the feeling, but he knew he didn't really want it to stop. And the man got the results he wanted from his cast, so it seemed that there was no right way to direct. 

Nearly six weeks in to rehearsals, with most of a script intact, things with Director Graves changed significantly. 

“Oh for the love of Christ!” exploded Graves from his seat in the middle of the theater, causing everyone to jump half out of their skin. “Ms. Young, do you have anything other than cotton between those pointed ears of yours?” Without waited for, and clearly not wanting, an answer, Graves threw himself out of his seat and stormed up to the stage, where Credence and the targeted girl stood. 

“Yes, director?” Susan Young answered unsurely, his brows furrowed in confusion. 

“I’m strongly beginning to doubt that.” Graves’ black dress shoes thudded across the wood as he moved into the actors’ space. He snatched the script out of Susan’s hand, noting absently that Credence didn’t have his script in his hand. Apparently he was already off book. “Tell me something, Ms. Young, have you ever had sex?” 

The young woman blinked in shock, resisting the urge to take a step back. “I beg your pardon?” she asked with more than a small amount of trepidation and offense. 

“I’m asking you if you’ve ever had sex.” He didn’t seem to feel the need to expound on his question, instead peering up at Susan over the edge of the script as he flipped a few pages. 

“I…y-yes, director.” Susan’s delicate face turned a brilliant shade of pink, and Credence was staring hard at his shoes. He prayed desperately that Graves did not feel the need to ask him the same extremely personal question. 

Fortunately, he didn’t. Instead, he kept Susan in his irritated sights. “Then clearly you’ve never been in charge of that situation. Do you have any idea what’s going on in this scene? Have you even read it before?” 

“Yes, of course, I—“ 

“No, you’re done. Go stand over there and watch how this is supposed to work.” Graves pointed a few feet away and finally turned his attention to Credence, who was still staring at the floor. “Relax, my boy, you’re doing just fine. You’ll do better if your partner isn’t such a dead fish.” The director offered Credence a warm smile intended to help settle his nerves. To some degree, it helped. However, it made his pulse skip for a whole new reason, and he could feel his cheeks start to blush. 

“Yes, director,” Credence answered quietly, glancing nervously over at Susan, who looked utterly mortified. “Sir, Susan is—“ 

“Shhhh.” The director crossed his lips with one finger and let the soft sound curl around the two of them. Credence’s breath caught in his throat, and his dark eyes instantly locked on that slightly bent finger, pressed across Graves’ full lips. With a slight shake of his head, the director tossed the script aside and moved into the younger man’s space. “This is meant to be a seduction. He’s young, inexperienced. Cautious.” One warm hand rose from Graves’ side and ran a faint line up the backside of Credence’s arm. He had surprisingly soft fingers, warm and tender as they traced up his sensitive bare skin. Goosebumps rippled out from the contact, and he managed to stifle a shiver. 

"Passing stranger..." 

Graves began Susan's line, his voice a low whisper. A gentle call that crept up from the base of Credence's spine and tingled across his suddenly overly-sensitive skin. 

"You do not know   
how longingly I look upon you.   
You must be he I was seeking." 

As Graves spoke, his hand continued to travel up the back of Credence's thin arm, pausing to trace around the knob of his elbow, then back down to his wrist. They stood nearly nose to nose, their height difference mitigated by the small lift of the director's dress shoes, and his own bare feet. At this range, Credence realized that Graves' eyes weren't just brown; they had flecks of gold chased through their depths, catching the light and tossing it back like a lure. Under the stage lights, they looked like the whiskey he'd seen in the older man's office. His eyes were set deep in his face, giving him a perpetually suspicious expression, but standing so close together now, it was much more...intense. With his heart in his throat, Credence took half a step back and watched something predatory flicker in the depths of the director's eyes. 

"I am not to speak to you, I am to think of you   
When I sit alone, or wake at night, alone   
I am to wait." 

Credence's own voice was much threadier than Graves, skipping with genuine caution, and yet an undeniable note of curiosity. He took another step back as if to pull away, but Graves tightened his fingers around the fine bones of the younger man's wrist and drew him in again. His other arm snaked around Credence's back, pressing their bodies close together. He was taut as a wire waiting to be plucked, body humming with the promise of unknown touch. The hand around his wrist loosened and slid slowly, suggestively up and down the bottom few inches of his arm. 

"Naked, you are simple as a hand." 

Graves' voice dropped further, now a secret whisper that the other actors were straining to hear. With a deft twist of his wrist, the director shifted his grip and brought Credence's hand up between them. His rough palm spread across the softer skin of the back of the actor's hand, feeling the line of every bone as their fingers laced lightly together. He tipped his head, gaze still locked with a pair of pure, dark brown eyes, and whispered across the thin skin of Credence's wrist, breath hot and intoxicating. 

"Smooth, earthy, small...transparent, round.   
You have moon lines and apple paths;   
Naked you are slender as wheat." 

Surprised as he was by the sensation, Credence couldn't stifle a soft whimpered sigh. Swallowing hard, the tip of his pink tongue darted out to wet his suddenly parched lips, a sight the older man couldn't take his eyes from. This was supposed to be a simple demonstration, but Graves could feel himself start to fall into the innocent guile of the lithe young man now pressed against his harder body. He could feel every breath and shift in his thin body, slowly melting against him. Graves knew, _knew_ he shouldn't press this advantage, but damn if the boy wasn't completely intoxicating. Wetting his own lips, still watching the sharp planes of Credence's face, Graves brushed the tenderest of kisses across his wrist, and he could swear he felt the flicker of a pulse against his mouth. His skin was impossibly soft, tasting of salt and soap, a fresh clean taste that he had to force himself not to chase with the tip of his tongue. 

Credence clung desperately to his next line, using it as an anchor in the swirling madness that was the older man he'd been dreaming about touching for weeks now. Even still, his free hand slid up Graves' back in a cautious test, feeling him shiver at his touch. It was a fascinating feeling, thrilling in its own right that he could make someone respond like that. He couldn't tear his eyes away from Graves' face, watching those full lips trace the blue line of his veins. 

"I have somewhere surely   
Lived a life of joy with you." 

His words were a breathless whisper, the careful words of a man who knew he should resist, and yet couldn't. The soft kiss of teeth across his skin made Credence gasp, eyes wide. A hint of heat warmed the older man's cheeks, the gold in his eyes brighter than before with something Credence couldn't place. Whatever it was, he never wanted it to go away. He knew his line continued, but suddenly, with the hot tingle racing down his arm, he couldn't come up with it. Instead, Credence said the first thing that came to mind, lines of another poem he'd been studying closely. 

"The hurt is not enough;   
I long for weight and strength,   
To feel the earth as rough   
To all my length." 

Now it was Graves' turn to draw in a short breath. The words of his most treasured poem spoken in that halting, sweet voice coiled at the base of his spine and made his heart skip. He let go of Credence's hand, weaving his fingers into the soft tangle of black hair at the base of his skull. A soft grip, and he tipped the boy's head back, finding Credence offered him no resistance. The weight of Credence's hand on his chest, fingers instinctively curling around the peaks of his vest lapels, he huffed the faintest breath, studying the blush that stained his high cheekbones, just barely leaning in towards his lips. "Very good, my boy," Graves purred, script forgotten. 

Off stage, something landed with a heavy thump on the stage floor. The moment shattered as Graves released Credence, and the younger man leapt back like he was guilty of something. Everyone turned to the source of the sound to find Tina looked somewhat apologetic, her script binder between her feet on the floor. "Whoops," she said with half a shrug. Graves knew better, however, and narrowed his eyes suspiciously at her as she bent down to pick up the binder. 

"That, Ms. Young, is what you are lacking," Graves said as he took a deliberate step back, smoothing his vest and walking back down the stairs. 

"I-I'm sorry?" The woman jumped at the use of her name, cheeks cherry pink as she stepped back onto stage with Credence, who was still trying to catch his breath as he stared after Graves. 

"Chemistry. Get some. Dismissed." There was a brief silence, then the actors set about gathering their things, hushed conversations filling the room with white noise. Credence shook his head abruptly and headed into the wings to find his bag. "Oh, Credence?" Graves was standing at the back of the theater by the doors into the lobby. 

Credence stumbled to a halt just off stage, turning and peering out from the wing. "Y-yes, Director?" 

"Come see me in my office before you leave." Deliberately ignoring Tina, Graves opened the door and stepped out, leaving Credence baffled and concerned. He was quick to gather his things, not wanting to keep the director waiting. He spotted Jacob and Queenie talking quietly in the back, the young woman sliding her hand into the crook of his elbow and allowing him to lead her off together. It made him smile, hitching his backpack higher up onto his shoulder before following after Graves. 

The office door was partially open when he arrived, and he knocked gently. "Director Graves?" He asked, pushing the door open to peek inside. 

"Yes, Credence, please come in." Graves was standing beside his desk, holding a well loved book of poetry. His fingers drifted down the aged page, lips curled up in a hint of what be a smile. He glanced up as Credence stepped inside, noting his tension and anxiety before returning his attention to the book in his hands. "That was an interesting choice you made today." 

Credence shuffled his feet nervously, keeping his eyes down. One shoulder lifted in a shrug that was as non-committal as his tone. "I'm sorry, Director, I...I forgot my line, and that was the first thing that came to mind." 

A huffed laugh designed to cut the tension in the room brought Credence's head up, and he found the director watching him with a faintly amused look. "No apologies necessary, Credence. It was brilliantly delivered, and fits the scene, and the character, perfectly." Something warm and pleasant curled in the pit of Graves' gut at the sight of a blush that warmed Credence's cheeks, along with the hint of a smile. An instinct struck him, and before he could talk it down with logic and prudence, he asked, "Credence, would you like to have dinner with me?" 

Already large brown eyes the color of dark coffee widened at the question, and he swallowed hard. "I-I'm flattered, sir, but I don't have any money, and I wouldn't want to--" 

Graves stalled his objections with a raise of his hand. "My invitation, my treat." He paused, only letting his hand drop when he saw Credence nod, that smile widening further. "And...please, just Graves is fine. So, is that a yes?” 

Credence opened and closed his mouth a few times, unable to hide his smile, and hoping that the burning in his cheeks wasn’t nearly so vibrant a blush as he feared. “Yes, sir…Graves.” He let the older man’s name roll around in his mouth, enjoying the feel of it, without pomp or circumstance. His mind wandered briefly to other ways he might say the name, other situations. A soft call for attention, a whisper in the dark, a gasping plea… 

He shook his head quickly to stop the dangerous thought process, and adjusted his bag on his shoulder. “I don’t…I mean, yes, but…I don’t know what’s around here.” 

For the first time in the month that Credence had known Graves, he saw a wide grin split that face. To say it was bright would be an overstatement, but it was warm, and it was genuine. Credence felt something flip in his chest at the sight of it, and tightened his grip on his backpack strap. “Relax, Credence,” he said, still smiling. “I’ve just the place in mind, it’s close. Go out front, I’ll meet you there in a moment.” The boy ducked his head in a small nod and slipped back out the door, leaving Graves in silence. He stared at the vacated space for a long moment before turning back to his desk. 

The pages of the script lay open, scattered haphazardly across any flat surface he could find. Notes were scrawled in margins in his flawless script, beautiful even in obvious haste. His fingers ghosted over the pages, flipping back corners in search of something in particular. A low noise of recognition as he pulled out the errant page he sought, the scene he and Credence had just done on stage. It was completed, a lyrical composition of young love, guileless naiveté, and experienced seduction. He had been satisfied with it, and how it fit into the story. Now, he pulled the page loose, laying it across the teetering top of a book at the corner of his desk as he pulled an ebony pen from the inside of his blazer. He crossed out a section of poetry, then wrote in looping letters across the bottom. 

_To Earthward belongs here._

~*~ 

The walk to the restaurant was brisk in the early evening hours. Graves had his long coat, so the chill didn't bother him, but Credence had only his thin denim jacket and a t-shirt. As they walked, chatting amiably, Graves noticed him trying to hide a shiver. His lips pulled down in a faint frown, and when they paused at the street corner to wait for the light to change, he shrugged out of his coat and draped it over the young man's narrow shoulders. The gestured startled him, and Credence started to object, but a look from Graves silenced him, so instead he burrowed into the soft warmth, one hand stroking the supple silk against his arm. 

As promised, the restaurant was close. It was a quiet, out of the way café with an unassuming storefront that Credence would have missed if he hadn't been intentionally looking for it. Graves opened the door for them, a light hand on Credence's lower back as he guided him inside. It was dimly lit, but not dark, and the hostess recognized Graves immediately. "Good evening, sir, so glad to see you back!" She beamed, sparing Credence a warm smile. He returned it cautiously, ducking his head a little into the high collar of the coat. "Your usual table is ready for you." 

"Wonderful, thank you, Alice," Graves said with a smooth purr and a bob of his head. Credence watched a rather remarkable, and probably unprofessional, blush spread across the woman's perfect cheeks, and he sympathized with her. She led them back to a quiet table in the back corner, tucked away from the traffic and noise of the rest of the restaurant. Graves took his coat back and hung it from a peg on the wall, gesturing for Credence to sit across from him. The table was small, with a pristine white tablecloth, and a small candle that flickered golden light across their faces. 

Menus arrived, along with a heavy tumbler half filled with a dark amber liquid that smelled sharp as the fumes wafted up to Credence. He must have looked curious, because Graves smiled and nudged the glass over to him. "Would you like to try it?" He asked with a raised brow. 

Slim fingers wrapped around the glass, and he lifted it to his lips for a cautious sip. The liquid hit his tongue, and burned almost instantly. His eyes widened in surprise, but he managed not to spit it back out. Instead, he let the sensation linger on his tongue, filling his mouth with spicy fire that tracked the full length of his throat when he finally did swallow. Eyes watering, he passed the glass back. "That's...strong," Credence said with half a cough, finding his voice rougher than usual. 

Graves laughed at the look on Credence's face, lifting his glass in salute and taking a much healthier swallow. "It's an acquired taste," he said as he set it back down on the table. "You'll grow to like it in time, my boy." His dark eyes watched in fascination as a warm blush started to creep up the slim line of the boy's neck, tongue sliding along his upper teeth as he imagined how that color might look other places on his porcelain skin... 

_Jesus Christ, Graves, get a grip,_ he scolded himself. Graves sat back a little abruptly and took another drink, which occurred to him likely wasn't going to help. 

Their conversation meandered comfortably, staying mainly around poetry. Credence had been doing a lot of reading in his spare time, having found a surprisingly deep love for the flow of language. Drinks and food came and went, and time passed unnoticed by either of them. Eventually, it was brought politely to their attention that the waitstaff would appreciate the ability to go home, since they were the last two still sitting at their table. Credence had the grace to blush, while Graves pointed at a table near them and asked how many time they had flipped that table. Alice looked baffled by the question, and answered that five couples had sat there over the course of their evening. With a nod, the older man laid down enough cash on the table to pay for their meal, plus five times the tip. 

"Our time here cost them five additional tips," he explained to a flabbergasted Credence. "It's the least I could do for the inconvenience." Shrugging back into his coat, Graves led Credence outside, noting that the young man was moving much more fluidly than before. While he hadn't kept up with the rate that the director had been drinking, the boy could put away his own liquor. The blush had taken up permanent residence on his high cheekbones, and the urge to run his thumb over that warmth was downright irresistible. With one hand on his lower back as they stepped into the chill, Graves could feel as much as hear his sharp intake of breath at the change in temperature. For the briefest second, his fingers flexed against the rough fabric of his jacket before pulling away to disappear back into the pocket of his coat, which the young man had insisted he take back. 

It was dark, nearing midnight, but even then, the city still pulsed with life. Cars zipped along the emptier streets, pedestrians wandered or stumbled towards their next destination. Sensing a vague unease from his companion, Graves stepped closer to his side, feeling him relax even just with his proximity. "Do you live close?" He asked, voice pitched low and carrying directly into the shell of his ear. 

Credence shook his head and pushed his hands deeper into the pockets of his jacket, shoulders creeping up a little from the cold. "No, I live across town. It's fine, I take the subway." 

"Are you sure?" Graves asked. "I can call you a car serv--" 

"No," Credence interrupted, suddenly flustered. "No, really, I'm fine." The thought of Graves knowing where he lived made Credence's palms sweat, and he shook his head. He didn't want the man to think any less of him. 

"Alright," Graves placated, nudging Credence with his shoulder to push him closer to the wall and out of the way of a pack of drunken frat boys. The contact surprised him, and he stumbled slightly, rolling off the corner of a building and into a half-lit alley. Graves followed after, one hand steadying him as he backed himself into the brick wall. "Whoa there," he said as he tightened his grip on Credence's elbow. "You ok?" 

Credence blinked in surprise as he suddenly found himself hemmed in against the cold wall, feeling the heat from Graves' body rolling off of him in waves. Knees bent as they were, he looked up at the older man through wide, startled eyes. "Y-yeah, I'm fine. S-sorry." 

"Hush, my boy," Graves whispered with a shake of his head. His touch lingered on Credence’s arm, the fingers of his other hand brushing across the smooth expanse of his forehead and tucking a stray strand of black hair behind the shell of his ear. “No apologies.” Whether it was the pull of the boy’s innocence, or the loosening of his own inhibitions, Graves found himself leaning a little closer into him, crowding into his space. 

“I…Mr. Graves…” Credence sounded cautious, but not necessarily afraid. Curious. Maybe a little needy. With the wall holding him up, he suddenly found both hands had ducked under the heavy wool of the director’s coat, seeking to grip his hips. With just the tiniest, unconscious tug on Graves' belt, he brought their bodies nearly together. 

The barest of inches kept them apart, their breath mingling in the cool night. Silence stretched between them, Graves studying the sharp planes of Credence's face in the dim light from the halo of a street lamp. "Credence..." His hand dropped down to rest against the lean line of the boy's neck, a faintly calloused thumb ghosting over the taut tendon. "God, you're a stunning creature." Before his brain could catch up, the older man closed the distance between them and brought their lips together in a delicate, testing kiss. 

Eyes half lidded as he leaned his head back to expose more of his neck to Graves' tease, Credence barely registered the movement until their lips met. He fell completely still, breath caught in his throat at the soft, unexpected touch. His heart pounded behind his ribs as he tried to focus between the hand on his throat, and the lips against own. After several seconds, he melted slowly into Graves, shifting his hands to grip the sides of the director's soft sweater. 

A low sound resonated in Graves' chest as he felt Credence soften beneath him. He pressed the advantage, deepening the kiss slowly so as not to frighten him, but draw him in. There was a purity, a naivete to Credence that made him suddenly suspect the younger man had never been kissed before. The tip of his tongue traced along the curve of his full lower lip, coaxing them open to him. He felt more than heard Credence's soft gasp as his mouth opened on instinct, fingers tightening and tugging at Graves' sweater. 

Releasing his elbow, Graves tucked his hand inside the thin denim of Credence's jacket, finding the heat of his body through his t-shirt. His hand dragged up the narrow line of his side, feeling each rib as he explored with confident fingers that itched to touch skin. A louder sound escaped the man pinned to the cold brick, and Graves used the opportunity to chase Credence's tongue into his mouth, tasting the sweet fruit of their shared dessert, and the sharp tang of rum. The hand against the side of his neck shifted to the back, his thumb pressing against the edge of Credence's jaw to tip his head back. Soft strands of black hair brushed against the backs of Graves' fingers, and he buried his fingers deep in the jaggedly cut tangles. 

The contrast of cold wall to warm body raised goosebumps along Credence's arms as he sank deeper into Graves' kiss. He was swept up in the sensations, overwhelmed and desperately wanting more. An ache built at the base of his spine, hot and unexpected. It was a familiar, if rare sensation, from Credence’s moments of privacy when he managed a hot shower. When his hands wandered over his too-thin frame and pictured exactly this, rough hands and deep kisses… 

Both hands seized tighter to Graves and pulled him closer. Their bodies now connected from shoulder to knee, he broke the kiss with a surprisingly deep moan as Graves' hips came in sudden contact with his own. "Mr. Graves..." Credence's voice was a desperate keen that skipped over his tongue as the world spun. 

With the kiss broken, Graves turned his attention down the long line of Credence's neck. His lips and teeth toyed with the sensitive skin, drawing shuddering gasps from the boy. A gentle tug on his hair tilted Credence's head to one side, exposing more of the soft flesh that begged to be kissed, to be marked. "Yes, my boy?" He purred, sharp teeth nipping at the delicate skin and marveling at the sound and squirm of the man he pressed harder into the wall. Pinning him down with his weight, Graves let out another low growl and bit harder, feeling his teeth sink in just a little further. 

Sharp nails dug into Graves' side through his sweater, and Credence rocked his hips forward in thoughtless instinct, seeking more, needing it. "More, please...!" 

Graves rolled his own hips forward hard, feeling Credence respond in kind. He growled louder, the hand on his side dropping down to ruck up the thin cotton of his shirt in search of skin. It was soft beneath his fingers, warm and pliable to the touch. That deep blush he so loved was spreading, down his neck and across the sharp lines of his collarbone. Graves' tongue started to chase it, dipping just below the frayed collar of his shirt as his mind filled with images of the young man stretched out across his bed, all flushed and slick with sweat as he explored... 

At long last, Graves' mind caught up with the rest of him. His conscience snapped back into place, and he pulled away abruptly, leaving Credence bereft and confused. "M-Mr. Graves...?" He asked breathlessly, blinking and trying to clear his vision. 

"Christ...oh, God, Credence, I shouldn't...that never...fuck." Graves dragged his fingers through his hair, mussing it in ways that Credence couldn't tear his eyes from. The younger man straightened some and started to reach for him, but the director stepped out of reach. "I'm sorry, I have to go." Without another word, Graves spun on the ball of his foot and disappeared around the corner.


	11. Filth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Credence's secret is discovered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING. This chapter includes homophobic slurs, child abuse, and graphic violence. Please don't hate me. I warned you. <3 Comments are, as always, appreciated.

By the time Credence stepped off the subway, it wasn't Wednesday anymore. Rehearsal had run extremely late, not to mention everything that had happened after, and he already knew he was going to suffer for it as soon as he got home. Ma expected him home by 11 every night, and his lies about working late were going to run out of steam soon. He suspected that walking in at 1am wasn't going to do him any favors. But to be perfectly honest, nothing was going to spoil his high. Not after a night like that. 

His lips still tingled with the heat of Graves' kiss. As he passed close to a building, Credence ran his fingers along the rough brick, remembering the way the wall of the alley had felt against his back as the two of them had ducked into the shadows, heads spinning with whiskey and rum after their late dinner. The abrupt ending, and Graves running off, had caused Credence significant consternation, but his head still swam with elation that anything had happened at all. And if that was all he ever got...well, that would just have to be enough. 

Even this late at night, the housing complex still wasn't completely silent. Several windows were still lit, the light sallow and weak in the dark. He could hear the sounds of a child crying, and what sounded like a rapidly escalating argument from an upper window. But it was none of his business, so Credence tugged the worn collar of his denim jacket higher to cover his cold ears, and hurried inside. 

On most nights, the sight of the front door of his apartment made Credence's heart drop into the pit of his stomach. But tonight, even the lingering dread for what he was about to face couldn't erase the soft smile on his face, or the warmth that bloomed in his belly the more he replayed the encounter, short though it was. Key jingling in his hand, his fingers didn't even shake as he reached for the door to unlock it. 

Before the key hit the lock, the door flew open. Ma's small, strong hand shot out and grabbed the front of Credence's t-shirt. She yanked hard on him, hurling him into the room and slamming the door behind him. His foot caught on the edge of the rug, and he tumbled into the coffee table with a painful crash against his narrow hip. "How dare you _lie_ to me!" she shouted, voice ringing clear as a bell in the silence. 

Credence cowered on the floor, one hand pressed against his aching hip. Already he knew it would bruise, darker than most. His dark eyes were wide as he pushed himself up onto his knees, brow furrowed in confusion. "Ma, what's wr--" He didn't finish his question before her hand sailed through the air and cracked hard across the side of his face, shocking a cry from him. Something sharp ripped through the skin of his cheek, and he realized she had turned her ring around, the prongs of the one piece of jewelry she owned cutting him. One trembling hand cupped the side of his face as he sank down onto his heels heavily, tears stinging his eyes. 

"Don't you start with your filthy lies with me, Credence! Every word you've spoken to me has been nothing but falsehoods to hide your wicked sins." Despite her small stature, Ma towered over Credence, both hands balled into shaking fists at her sides. "You don't really have a job, do you?" She waited only half a heartbeat before one hand dropped to bury painfully into Credence's long hair and yank hard to pull him up onto his knees. " _Do you?!_ " 

"Ma, please, stop!" Credence gasped, one hand reaching up to grab desperately at her wrist. She shook him once before throwing him away again, his ribs hitting the corner of the table hard enough to crack one. Panting for air through clenched teeth as he tried to breathe through the pain, Credence swallowed hard. She knew something. Somehow, Ma had seen or been told something. He supposed it had been inevitable; why he thought he could get away with the lie forever he didn't know. 

Good things never lasted. 

"No, I don't," he finally answered in a small voice, head bowed and eyes closed. His mouth opened to speak again, but he thought better of it, and closed it again. _Answer the question you're asked,_ he heard Graves say in the back of his mind. The sudden, unbidden memory of his voice made Credence whimper just slightly, biting the sound back almost as soon as he made it. 

"No, you don't," Ma snapped coldly. "You've been _whoring_ yourself out, haven't you?" Unable to look at him, she turned away and stalked across the room with short, angry steps. 

"Wh-what?!" The accusation took Credence by surprise, the hand on his face dropping to his lap. "No, Ma, that's not--" 

" _WHAT DID I TELL YOU ABOUT LYING TO ME?!_ " Credence had never heard Ma this loud before. She whipped back around, face violently red as she glared hard at him, killing any further protest in his throat, and he sagged in defeat. In silent admission of guilt. He watched as something snapped in her eyes, that last bastion of control giving way. Crossing the distance between them faster than Credence expected, Ma snatched a willow switch from against the wall and grabbed a hold of the back of her adopted son's collar. One hard pull dragged the denim aside and ripped through his t-shirt. 

"I saw you with that...that...that _thing_ tonight. Coming out of the _theatre_. With the man with the scarf, with his...his hand on..." Ma's voice failed her, choking her as if she was about to be sick. "He had his filthy hands all over you, and _you let him touch you!_ " With another sharp pull, the denim jacket came free of his shoulders and tangled at his elbows. The thin fabric of his shirt tore easily, falling open to reveal the thin, scarred skin of his back. 

"No, Ma, please!" Credence begged, struggling to get free of her grip. Ma tightened her hold and spun hard, using leverage to shove the thin young man down hard against the threadbare carpet. Coarse fibers grit against his cheek, leaving behind carpet burn across his bleeding cheek. Her sharp knee dug into the center of his spine, effectively pinning him down to the floor. 

"Be silent!" Her command was razor sharp, and Credence instantly bit his tongue in well-trained instinct. He could hear the switch whistle through the air half a second before it cracked across his bare shoulders. "Don't you _dare_ call me Ma, you filthy queer!" Despite being prepared for it, he still cried out in pained surprise, arching his back and trying to squirm away. Blow after blow rained down on his unprotected back, leaving behind burning welts as the skin started to tear. Blood streaked across his porcelain skin, smeared by each new lash of the switch. He quickly lost count of the strikes, finally falling limp under her assault as tears streamed down his face. Voice raw from screams that the floor couldn't muffle, his sobs hiccuped in his throat and left him a trembling mess under Ma's hands. 

"Ma, stop!" Came a pitiful cry from the bedrooms. Ma's strike was halted sharply as she looked up to see Chastity holding tightly to Modesty, who was trying desperately to get away. "Ma, you're hurting him!" 

The switch hit the floor with a clatter as Ma shoved Credence aside, oblivious to his wet whimpers as he rolled onto his side. "No, my child," she purred as she stepped away from Credence. "You can only hurt creatures that God has created. And that is no creation of _my_ God." 

Credence flinched as if he'd been struck again, curling into a tight ball on the floor as his body shook with violent aftershocks. He tried to catch his breath, tried to focus on something other than the pain that lit across every nerve in his body. "Please," he finally gasped, drawing Ma's cold stare back down. "Please, Ma--" 

"I am not your Ma," she hissed back, advancing a step towards him. "Now get out of my house, you faggot. I won't have you anywhere near my daughters again." 

Wide, red-rimmed eyes stared up at the older woman as Credence tried to push himself up onto his hands, face streaked with tears. "But--" 

"GET OUT!" That same flash of black rage was back as she bent down and grabbed a handful of his hair, dragging him off the floor. She hauled him across the room and threw the door open a half second before tossing him out into the hall. The door slammed behind him, and Credence was left in the sudden, complete silence. Above him, a single bare bulb flickered unevenly, making an already unsteady world dim and spin around him. The rough texture of the wall scraped against his abused skin, pain on pain, and he tipped over sideways to lay on the stained floor, ignorant of the heavy scent of dirt and urine. 

He didn't know how long it had been before he finally came back to his senses. Awareness was slow to return, and Credence found himself still laying on the floor. His back was cold and stiff, blood staining the last shreds of his shirt. With a low groan of pain, he pushed himself into a sitting position, carefully shrugging back into his jacket. Dull pain threatened to burst his skull, his eyes dry and filmy from crying. Through the small window at the far end of the hall, he could see that the sun was just beginning to rise. 

Thursday. It was Thursday. The girls would be leaving the house soon, and the last thing he wanted was for them to see him like this. Or to risk further abuse from Ma...from Mary Lou. 

Credence forced himself to his feet, using the wall for balance. The world tilted around him, but he took stumbling steps towards the stairs. Time lost all meaning as he made his way down the hall, then down the stairs. Bony fingers wrapped around the railing tight enough to turn his knuckles white as he made his unsteady way down the stairs. The sight of someone in such a condition was nothing new for this building, especially at this hour of the morning, so the few people he encountered in the halls didn't spare him so much as half a glance. 

Finally he reached the front doors, stepping out into the cold of early dawn. The air hit him like a slap, a fresh shiver wracking his pained body as he leaned against the brick wall. Bleary eyes blinked to try and clear the film from his vision as he tried to think, to come up with a plan. All Credence had were the clothes on his back, and the change in his pocket. His guitar, his bag, his clothes...all of those were upstairs in Mary Lou's apartment. It was all he could do to pray that she didn't get the clever idea to burn everything before he figured out a way to get it all back. 

"Move, Credence," he muttered to himself, the sound of his own voice spurring him into action. The thought crossed his mind to go to Director Graves for help, but was quickly discarded. The last thing the man needed was his pathetic mess dumped onto his doorstep. No, he couldn't do that. Besides, he wasn't entirely sure where the director lived, and didn't exactly want to be seen in his current state in Graves' neighborhood. He was sure the cops would be called on him anyway. 

Instead, he made his stumbling way to the subway, leaning heavily against the grimy tile wall as he descended the stairs. It was cold under ground, but at least it wasn't windy here. At the base of the stairs, once through the turnstiles, he ducked around the corner and sat down on the floor. Several homeless people had the same idea; human-shaped lumps draped in long jackets lined the wall. Odds were good the police would come through soon, but maybe he'd be able to catch a couple hours before he had to get to rehearsal. Heavy eyelids slid closed as he shivered against the permeating cold of the subway station, concrete against his legs and back. Exhaustion eventually won out, and he faded into fitful sleep. 

A rough hand on his shoulder woke Credence some time later. At some point in his catnap, he'd fallen sideways, head pillowed on thin, shaking arms. "Hey, kid," said a gruff voice that wasn't entirely unsympathetic. "C'mon, kid, you can't sleep here." Credence cracked his eyes against the light as he looked up at the face of the female security guard who'd woken him up. "The cops are making their rounds, and you aren't a regular, so I don't want you to get caught up." 

"What time is it?" Credence asked, his own voice hoarse from overuse and a lack of hydration. He slowly sat up, barely hiding a wince at the pull across his back. 

"It's almost 10. They'll be here soon, let me help you up." She offered him a hand under his elbow and helped him to stand up. Her dark face was creased with worry at how light he was in her hands, and how he leaned against the wall. "You ok, kid?" 

Eyes closed to stop the world from spinning, Credence's brow drew down in a frown, and he shook his head just a little. "I'll be fine," he answered, then stopped cold. "Wait. Did you say it's almost 10?" Both eyes shot wide in a panic, and he pinned her with a terrified stare. 

"Yeah, quarter til, why?" Before she could finish her question, Credence had squirmed free of her hands and taken off at a run. "Hey, wait a sec!" But he was long gone. 

Call was at 9am. 

Graves was going to kill him.


	12. Fallout

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Credence shows up late to rehearsal. Graves is unimpressed, and handles that, along with his own guilt about the night prior, poorly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, much quicker posting rate. :) Comments, as always, are appreciated!

To say that Percival Graves was angry would be considered the understatement of the century.

Picquery was coming by for a progress check today, and if he didn't have something solid, something workable, she was going to pull him even before preview. They _finally_ had a workable script, and his lead was missing. The director sat in his chair and drummed his fingers against the arm of his chair while Tina ran the scenes without Credence. Queenie took aside one actor after another for fittings, watching Graves out of the corner of one very concerned eye. As every second ticked by, his tension and irritation grew. Credence had never been late before. Hell, the boy was always an hour early for rehearsal. So maybe something was actually wrong. It wasn’t like he could call him; the fool still didn’t have a phone. Remembering this simply angered Graves further, and he stifled a low snarl.

It was almost 11 when there was a small, hushed commotion in the wings. The noise brought Graves’ attention up, only his eyes lifting. “I can guarantee this nonsense isn’t in the script,” he drawled, noting with some satisfaction as several actors jumped and skittered back to their places. There was a long pause, and finally Credence stepped onto the stage. He looked absolutely dreadful; already dangerously thin, he looked like a husk of a man, chin nearly to his chest and his shoulders curled up to his ears. There were dark bags under his eyes, his cheek was scuffed, and he kept tugging at the corner of his jacket as if to settle it on his back.

If he didn’t know any better, Graves would have thought him a heroin addict in the middle of withdrawal.

“So good of you to join us, Mr. Barebone,” Graves said acidly as he rose from his seat. Both hands were in the pockets of his slacks, balled into tight fists. He still remembered the feel of Credence’s body against his, the sharp angles of his bones beneath his hands. Seeing him here now brought last night back in a rush; the warmth of that untouched skin beneath his fingers, so soft. The taste of him, warm and sweet with the sharp tang of whiskey. How eager Credence had been, responsive to the slightest touch and shift of Graves’ broader, more experienced body as he pressed him against the rough brick, unable to resist him any longer...

The harsh slap of reality and guilt at taking advantage of Credence.

That painful reminder twisted in his gut, and made Graves grit his teeth as he clamped down hard on it. It had been a long night alone with his whiskey after essentially leaving Credence alone in the alley, flushed and breathless, with no explanation. Inner guilt warped into outward frustration, and Credence became the unfortunate target. "I'm glad to finally know where we rank in your list of priorities."

Credence's heart pounded against the inside of his ribs, surely audible to everyone in the theater. Slim fingers tangled and twisted in complex knots that caught on bony knuckles as he stared at his feet, not daring to look up. "I'm s-sorry, Mr. Graves, I was...last night, I--"

"Last night was a mistake." Any residual noise in the room was instantly silenced, and Graves bit down on the inside of his cheek hard enough to draw blood. "What you did in your spare time last night is none of our business," he continued quickly, "nor is it our _problem_. You knew what time call was, and you chose to disrespect your fellow actors, the crew, and me by being nearly two hours late." His tone was frigidly cold, mechanical in a way that Credence had rarely seen in the director before. "If you can't manage as simple a skill as arriving on time, perhaps this is not the place for you any longer."

By some miracle, Credence managed to stay on his feet despite how badly his knees were shaking. His head snapped up at the low, implied threat, a strangled sob catching in his throat. "But M-Mr. Graves, it was...I...please, sir, forgive me for being so late, I didn't--"

"Didn't care enough. Yes, we can see that." Making his slow way down the aisle, Graves stopped at the edge of the stage and turned his cold stare up to Credence. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew he was being far too harsh on the boy, but there was no backing down now. "I do not tolerate disrespect in my house, Credence."

"I'm sorry," came his whispered reply. Hot tears stung his cheeks, landing with a soft plop on the wood floor. The words Graves spoke were so, so similar to things Ma would say. Her voice overlapped the director's in his ears, and he was unable to suppress a flinch. "I didn't...I couldn't...I'm _sorry_." Unable to stand the flat look on Mr. Graves' face, haunted by dual voices, Credence spun suddenly on his heel and took off the way he'd come. The door crashed open against the far wall, punctuated by a soft sob and the subsequent slamming shut of the heavy side door.

Absolute silence weighed heavily on the room, all eyes on Graves, who continued to stare at the space so abruptly vacated by the boy. Regret welled up like nausea in his gut, and the director turned away to go back to his seat. "Curtis, are you ready?" he called out, voice thicker than he would have liked.

A thin young man, built similarly to Credence but with a mop of ash blond hair stepped out from the wings. "Yes, director," he said steadily, shoulders tense.

"Good. Everyone, take ten minutes, then we start from the top. Queenie, please take extra time to refit Curtis for Credence's wardrobe, as I do not think we will be seeing him again anytime soon." The tension in the room was so brittle, the tiniest sound was likely to shatter everything. One heartbeat, two, then Graves turned back to the stage with a frown. "Queenie?"

"She left, Mr. Graves," Tina called, the only brave soul left in the room. "She followed after Credence."

Graves sighed heavily and dragged his hand down his face, feeling the scrape of neglected stubble against his palm. "Of course she did. Fine, take lunch, thirty minutes, we start from the top when we will, by the will of _God_ , have everyone back in the damn room to actually start this _fucking_ rehearsal." He had barely finished his sentence before the actors scattered like roaches, no one wanting to linger long enough to draw Graves' ire further. In a matter of moments, only Graves and Tina remained. The assistant director stood on the edge of the stage, arms crossed over her chest in blatant irritation. "Not one word out of you, Goldstein," Graves said with a dismissive wave of his hand as he turned to walk back up the aisle.

"What happened last night?" Her words cut like a knife through the air, slicing into Graves' chest and bringing him to a halt. He froze mid-step, slow to turn his head to catch a glimpse of her in his periphery.

"Nothing that is any of your business, Goldstein." Each word was slow, measured for its weight and import. "Nor is it your problem. Back off."

"Given the way you just shredded that poor boy in front of the _entire_ cast, and have now forced a huge cast shift on me, yes, Graves, I think it's exactly my business." Tina followed Graves down the steps and up the aisle, stopping a few rows short of him on the sloped floor. "I watched the two of you leave together after rehearsal last night. And after what you two did on stage..." She bristled a little; Tina didn't give a damn about who Graves took to his bed, that was his own concern. But Credence was innocent, naïve, and Graves was...not. A motherly instinct she did not know she possessed flared to life whenever Graves touched him, to see the way Credence responded to him. "What the hell did you two do last night after rehearsal?"

"Nothing!" Graves finally snarled, spinning around and closing the distance between them in two long strides. He towered over her, and was subconsciously impressed that she stood her ground against him. "We did absolutely _nothing_ you would disapprove of, mother. Because I stopped it." Tina lifted her chin in challenge, arms dropping to her sides. "So you can stop with your damn mother hen routine, the boy is safe from my lecherous ways." With a roll of his eyes, he turned away, still shaking with anger and frustration. "Now leave me in peace."

~*~

Outside, Credence had taken off like a drunken shot as he fled the theater. Heart pounding in his ears, he stumbled out onto the sidewalk with sobs choking his throat. His toe caught on the edge of the carpet and he hit the sidewalk hard, hands scuffing across the pavement and tearing the skin from the heels of his hands. Dirt smeared into fresh blood, and he tried to shove himself to his feet.

The tell-tale click of a woman's heels approached from behind. "Credence?!" Called a concerned Queenie. She rushed to his side, placing a hand on his elbow and helping him up off the ground. His attempts to pull away were half-hearted at best, and he finally let her help, leaning into her as he stood on unsteady feet. "Credence, honey, are you alright?"

"No," he answered in a moment of stark honesty, shaking his head as tears continued to stream down his face. "No, I'm not."

"Oh, honey, you can't let Graves get to you like this." Her lips curled up in a half smile as she brushed the dirt from his sleeve. "What's got you so twisted up today? You're not usually so..." Queenie's soft words faded off as her eyes took in the whole of him. Up close, she was able to see dried blood at the collar of his jacket, and could see the ripped fabric of his t-shirt. "Credence, what happened?" Her voice dropped much lower, a whisper that was both caring, and yet brooked no argument in her expectation of an answer.

"I...I was...it..." Credence struggled to string a sentence together, unable to stop the shaking. Finally he shook his head and simply leaned against the shorter woman, his fraying control unraveling with each hiccupped breath.

"Alright, hush now, honey, hush," Queenie soothed. She ran her fingers through his hair, down the back of his neck. The contact made him flinch, conflicted memories of Graves' tempting fingers and Ma's violent hand. Her hand drew away instantly, the tip of her finger catching the edge of his collar and pulling it back just far enough to get a glimpse at the extensive damage across his shoulders. Barely holding back a gasp, she let her hand drop to his elbow. "Come on, honey, Tini and I live just down the block. Let's get you inside and get you cleaned up, ok? Then you can tell me what happened to you."

Out of energy to argue, Credence simply nodded and allowed himself to be led down the street. He was oblivious to Queenie's reaching into her pocket and pulling out her phone to shoot a quick text to Tina that told her sister she had him, and would be taking him home, and don't you _dare_ tell Graves. The walk to the apartment was a hazy blur, but soon Credence was being gingerly sat on the edge of a plush couch. Realizing the scenery had changed, and that is was much warmer now, he blinked and looked around.

The apartment was small, but cozy. Shades of pink and grey dominated the space, with accents of gold to bring a demur sparkle to the room. Credence knew next to nothing about home décor, but even still he could tell that Queenie had been in charge of the aesthetic here. The couch he sat on was comfortable, with velvety pink brocade and deep mahogany wood accents along the back. Not wanting to dirty it, he took up as little space as possible, just barely perched on the seat. By the time he realized that Queenie had left the room, she was returning with a small basket. Inside was a stack of damp towels that wafted faint steam, and what looked like a simple first aid kit. She set the whole thing on the table and promptly ignored it, sitting carefully beside Credence and taking his chilled hand. "Look, honey," she started, "I don't want to push you or anything, but...will you tell me what happened?" With soft red-blonde curls dancing around her porcelain face and brilliant, caring blue eyes, Credence could have sworn he was in the presence of an angel. Her hand was warm on his, fingers soft against the callouses and faded scars. Something told him to keep his secrets, to not burden such a sweet woman with so much awfulness. But something else in her eyes, in her tone, told him he was safe, that he could share, and that she would help.

Credence started to talk.

He had no firm plan about how exactly he was going to tell her the story. There was so much to tell that was important, so much that didn't matter in the slightest. So for a while, his story skipped around, until he landed on the most memorable part of his life so far; the play. Credence told her about the lies he was telling Ma, about bouncing between the two plays, and staying out late hours. He told her about the dreams and desires he'd been having, and how they confused and scared and thrilled him. He told her about last night, about dinner with Graves, and their brief, passionate encounter in the alley.

Which led directly into what happened at home.

This story was much harder to tell. The words tumbled from his lips as Credence stared at the carpet between his feet, sometimes skipping, sometimes stopping all together as he remember the look in Ma's eyes, the cold fury she leveled at him. The pain of the switch as it split open the skin of his back. Modesty's screams.

By the time he was finished, Credence had curled so far into himself, he took almost no space on the couch beside Queenie. His cheeks were streaked with tears, forearms laid across his thighs as he lay down on top of them with his head between his hands. Queenie, for her part, sat beside him quietly, occasionally making sounds of encouragement or sympathy. One hand rested on his low back, a wordless reminder of her presence even when he wasn't looking at her. The silence between them stretched, but she was in no hurry to interrupt him. Finally, when his breathing seemed to have slowed, she placed both hands carefully on his shoulders and tugged at the denim. "Will you let me take a look?" Credence's first instinct was to flinch away from her, but he stopped himself. Instead, he nodded once, sitting up to help her remove his jacket.

Moving with as much care and delicacy as she could, Queenie helped Credence out of his coat. Blood dried to a rusted red stained the collar and the inside in spots, but beneath it was so much worse. His t-shirt, a threadbare thing to begin with, was ripped wide open from the neck halfway down his back. The tatters fell aside as the weight of denim was lifted, revealing an ugly network of old scars overlaid with fresh welts. On many, the skin had split and bled, streaks left behind. It took significant self control for Queenie to silence her own gasp, instead biting down on her tongue. One hand rested lightly between two of the marks, finding one of the only unmarred spots on his back. "Oh, honey, I'm so sorry," she whispered. "Let's get you cleaned up."

Her touch was delicate, but Credence was so wrung out, he was numb to it. Hazy brown eyes stared absently at the cold fireplace across the room from him. Occasionally he would flinch at a touch to a particularly sensitive spot, but no reaction registered on his face, and he made no sound. Queenie used a warm cloth to clean away the dried blood and dirt that had crept under his shirt during his night in the subway. Once clean, she spread a soothing ointment across each one, aware of the shift in his breathing. "This will help with the pain, and reduce scarring," she explained softly, watching as Credence nodded absently.

She worked in silence, and at last had the last bandage down. "All finished," she said with a nod and a deep sigh. The tension seemed to have faded from Credence's shoulders, leaving him exhausted. "Why don't you lay down and take a nap, Credence?" Queenie said as she stood up and put her supplies back in the basket. 

"I don't want to be a burden," he hedged wearily, not quite able to muster the energy to stand up.

"You're not." Her tone was kind, but firm. "Now, off with your shoes, and lay down. You're staying here tonight, and tomorrow, we'll...deal with all of this.” As if on autopilot, Credence did as he was bid. Worn out shoes tucked under the edge of the coffee table, and he all but collapsed sideways onto the couch. Queenie pulled a remarkably soft blanket down over his shoulders and tucked it around his slim body, careful of his new bandages. Delicate fingers brushed back a sweat-heavy lock of black hair as she leaned down and pressed a kiss to his temple. “Rest now, Credence. I’ll be back soon.” But he didn’t hear a word she said; he was already asleep.


	13. Clarity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All the pieces fall into place for Director Graves, and he realizes just how bad things really are for his young actor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last in my series of pre-written chapters, so you're gonna have to go back to a slower posting rate. Sorry, my lovelies! <3 But now things start to get...interesting. Comments, as always, are appreciated!

The resounding crash of the stage door flying open and slamming into the wall ricocheted around the theater, bringing rehearsal to yet another unceremonious halt. Graves stood in the middle of the audience, too restless to sit with his hands in his pockets. He jumped just like everyone else, and that momentary lapse in control set him off. "Who in the nine hells was that? Get out here so I can skin you alive!" 

"Percival Graves, you pompous, self-righteous, arrogant son of a whore!" Queenie's normally even-tempered, sweet voice was sharp and venomous as she stormed across the stage, heels clicking on the wood of the stage. Her face was red with fury, hands balled in tight fists at her sides. Normally perfect hair was in a whirl around her head from her brisk walk from her apartment. "Do you have any idea what you've done? No, of course you don't, because you can't see past the end of your god damn nose, you insufferable hypocrite!" 

Tina immediately recognized the rare, pure fury of her sister, so stepped up onto the stage. "Everyone, take ten. And by that I mean leave until I come get you." The more senior actors moved quickly, with a few of the new ones hesitating. "I mean it, out. Now." Tina shooed them away as Queenie and Graves stared each other down in a silent battle of wills. 

Once the room was empty, Graves spoke first. "Choose your next words _very_ carefully, Ms. Goldstein. I do not react well to being lambasted in public, especially in front of my actors." 

"Oh, but you have no problem tearing down someone who wants nothing more than your approval, in the most unnecessarily brutal way possible? Thank you so much for proving my point." Queenie's tone had tempered, though now it was low and dangerous. She didn't appear to be afraid of Graves in any way, which the director was unaccustomed to. 

A sharp stab of guilt at the implication of Credence twisted in Graves' gut. He grit his teeth and forced himself to maintain eye contact, but he could see the flash of satisfaction cross Queenie's face; she'd seen it, too. "That is none of your business, Ms. Goldstein." 

"Since the boy is currently asleep on my couch after I patched him up, yes, it damn well is my business!" The costumer took another step towards the edge of the stage, looming over Graves who had not yet moved from his spot in the row. Tina stood off to one side of the stage, watching in silent trepidation, but this last revelation brought her forward. 

"Wait, what?" She blurted out, ignoring Graves' black look at her intrusion. 

"What happened?" Graves snapped on the end of Tina's own question. His manicured nails cut deep half-circles into the heels of his hand, doing his best to hide the tremor that raced through his muscles with the need to _go_ and _do_ and _fix_. Protective rage he'd never experienced before flared hot in his chest, and it took every ounce of self control he had to keep still. 

Queenie seemed to sense this, for the fury and tension in her posture faded just a little. "You'll have to ask him yourself, Graves. It's not my story to tell." 

Graves was silent for a long moment, his thoughts swirling madly behind a perfectly flat expression. What had happened after he'd left the boy alone in the alley? Had he been mugged? God, was this _his_ fault? Unable to contain his nervous energy any longer, Graves spun himself out of the row, grabbing his coat on the way. "Take me to him." 

Up on the stage, Queenie crossed her arms and cocked one hip out. "No." 

That single word brought him to a halt in the middle of the aisle. Flat brown eyes raised slowly to pin her with a look that was known to bring many a person to their knees. But the pretty blonde woman standing above him was unmoved. "I beg your pardon." 

"You heard me. No. Not doing it. The boy needs sleep, and the _last_ thing he needs right now is you around mucking him all up. Maybe tomorrow you can see him, but tonight, no." As she spoke, Grave slowly approached her, climbing up the stairs until he stood nose to nose with her. Fury darkened his eyes, and her nerves skipped at the waves of anger she could feel rolling off of him. The opening to take a deep jab at him was too obvious to pass up, and her brows drew down in a pointed frown. "After spending a night on the streets, he needs his sleep." 

That rocked Graves back on his heels. His hands finally unclenched, balling up again to contain the urge to grab Queenie's arms and shake the story out of her. "He slept on the street?" His voice was tight, clearly taking significant effort to speak calmly. "Why didn't he come to me?" 

Queenie's laugh was a harsh bark of a sound so at odds with her usual bell-bright laugh. "After what happened between the two of you last night? Would you have come to you?" The darkening of Graves' expression told her everything she needed to know, even as he looked away. "I thought not." Seeing Graves so conflicted, and trying so hard not to show it, Queenie glanced back over her shoulder at her nervously distraught sister. She waved one hand calmingly at her and took Graves by the elbow, drawing him out of earshot. 

"Look. I know Tina doesn't...approve of whatever is going on between you two. And she has a point." One hand lifted to cut off his immediate objection. "But. You're both adults, and I trust you with him, despite the stories. Because I see you for who you are, not who everyone thinks you are. You'd take good care of him, wouldn't you?" Graves could only manage a single curt nod, still not sure where this was going. "I thought so. Listen. I'm serious when I say he needs his rest; you had to have seen it on him this morning. The poor thing is utterly destroyed. And before you start ripping yourself apart, no, it's not all your fault. You certainly didn't help, but this didn't happen because of you." Her hand tightened on his elbow at the low sound he made in the back of his throat. "I mean it. Don't hold your feet to the flame over it, alright?" This time the pause before his nod was longer, but she finally got it. "Come by in the morning, alright? You two can talk then, in comfort and privacy on neutral ground. I'll get Tini out of the house and everything." 

Graves hesitated for a long moment, staring absently at the black curtains across the stage from him without seeing them. The idea of leaving the boy alone for so long, with no idea what he'd done wrong, twisted at his conscience, but Queenie was right; if it was as bad as she said, then he needed the rest. And he wouldn't get in the way of that. "Tomorrow morning then," he confirmed with a nod. "I'll come by before breakfast, and you and your sister can go out, my treat." 

For the first time since her abrupt entrance, Queenie smiled. "That's awful sweet of you, Graves. Thank you." 

"It's the least I can do for you and your sister for taking care of Credence for the night. If he incurs any expense to you, I'll reimburse you." Now it was his turn to stall an objection. "I insist." Before she could try and argue further, he took half a step back and caught Tina's attention. "Ms. Goldstein, bring the actors back. I leave it to you to run the rest of rehearsal today. I...have something to attend to." Without waiting for an objection from his assistant director, Graves spun on his heel and hastened down the stairs, disappearing out the back door in a sweep of black wool and white silk. 

The fact that what he had to tend to was a night of self-loathing and whiskey was absolutely none of her business. 

~*~ 

As promised, Graves arrived promptly in the morning, dressed comfortably in dark jeans and a soft grey cashmere sweater, as well as his ever-present wool coat, and blue scarf. He carried four steaming cups from the coffee shop up the street; three coffees, and one hot cocoa. Queenie let him in with a slightly weary smile. "Tini's a little grumpy this morning," she whispered at his raised brow. "Don't worry, she'll be fine." She led him into the kitchen, passing by the closed doors of what he assumed was the sitting room. 

Tina waited at the kitchen table, glowering angrily at a glass of water in front of her. She looked up at their entrance and pinned Graves with a hostile stare. It elicited nothing more than a snort of amusement as he offered her her favorite drink, a white mocha. "You're not going to bribe me into being ok with this," she hissed even as she took the cup. 

"I know. But if this will sate the beast for the span of the morning, I'll call it a win." Graves couldn't help but grin toothily at her annoyed growl. "I've reserved you a table at Adele's, there's a Lyft waiting out front for you. Order whatever you like, they already have a tab open." He handed Queenie her own drink, an extra sweet vanilla latte, which she accepted with a genuine giggle. 

"I might order the lobster, just to spite you," Tina shot back as she shrugged into her coat, pulling her dark hair out from under the collar. Her eyes darted between Graves and the hallway, as if waiting for someone to appear. 

"You should, it's delicious. Though personally I'd suggest the confit duck, or the crab eggs benedict. Or both, while you're at it." Clearly unwilling to be ruffled by her attitude, Graves sipped his own coffee, his sharp smirk not quite hidden. 

With a frustrated, slightly stifled scream, she stormed out of the kitchen. Graves flinched when the door slammed, shaking his head with a wry smile. "Don't worry about her," Queenie repeated, putting her own coat on more slowly. "I told Credence you were coming over, he's in the sitting room. I'll text you when we're done so you know we're on our way back." She glanced over her shoulder to make sure they were alone, then stepped up closer to him. "We're happy to give him a place to stay for a while, it's no trouble at all, but..." 

Graves lifted one hand in a settling gesture. "We'll figure out something more permanent once I know the full situation, Queenie. Go enjoy breakfast with your sister. Bring her back in a better mood, will you?" 

Queenie laughed at that, the bright sound he was more accustomed to. "I'll do my best, Graves." Lifting up on her toes as she settled into her pink coat, she pressed a kiss to his cheek before following after her sister. 

Now alone in the silent kitchen, Graves closed his eyes slowly and drew in an unsteady breath. He was completely unprepared for how this conversation might go, and that made him uncomfortable. Trying to find calm in a task, Graves set the drink holder down on the table and shed his jacket, finding a hall closet to hang it up in before collecting both cups and going to the closed door. He thought he could hear the sounds of quiet shuffling inside, so he tapped lightly on the door. "Credence?" 

Inside the room, Credence sat curled up on the couch, wrapped up in the same soft blanket Queenie had laid over him the day before. He'd woken up to eat last night, then promptly fallen back asleep after he'd been told Graves would be coming by to talk and, presumptively, apologize. That Credence wasn't holding his breath for. Bare toes peeked out from under the blanket, and he peered over at the door, only his eyes and pointed nose visible, topped with a messy mop of black hair. "Yeah?" 

Not quite the full invitation Graves was looking for, he pressed a bit more. "May I come in?" 

The fact that he actually asked surprised Credence, and it showed in his tone. "Uh...y-yeah, c'mon in?" As the door pushed open, he tucked himself back into the corner of the couch, trying to find the best angle that didn't put any pressure on his back. "It's not like it's my room or anything." 

"For the moment it is," Graves said as he stepped inside. He considered closing the door behind him, but since they were alone, it wasn't like they were going to be overheard anyway. On top of that, he didn't want to make the boy feel trapped. Instead, he left it open a little, pausing to take a look around. It had a very cozy, homey feel to it; even he felt comfortable, as if someone had just given him a hug. Then his eyes landed on Credence, and his chest ached. Now that he was actually _looking_ , it was so obvious; he looked so small, and vulnerable, and...broken. 

_Fuck. What has been happening to you, my boy?_

He sat cautiously down on the couch beside Credence, leaving slightly more space than social politeness dictated. Credence's dark eyes watched him move, not quite afraid of him, but not trusting him, either. And honestly, Graves couldn't exactly blame him. Their last conversation had been far from pleasant, and it sounded like it was no fault of Credence's; instead, Graves' ego and hubris had gotten in the way. "I brought you some hot cocoa," he said softly, offering him the cup. "It's significantly better than the powdered stuff they have at the theater." 

Credence hesitated as moment before he snaked one thin arm out from under the blanket. The soft fabric fell open, revealing a pair of soft flannel pants and a hoodie that was much too large. Graves' confusion must have been plain on his face, because Credence huffed a quiet laugh as he brought the cup to his lips. "Jacob left his sweatshirt here a week or so ago, so Queenie is letting me borrow it until they can find me something that fits better." 

"Jacob left..." No, Graves decided, he didn't want to finish that question. Credence's grin widened, but quickly disappeared behind his cocoa. "What happened to the shirt you were wearing?" 

That made his smile fade, and Credence lowered the cup again as he shifted uncomfortably in the corner of the couch. His eyes dropped down to his hands, noting absently that they were shaking again. Despite being wrapped up in the blanket with multiple layers, he was chilled, and could feel his heart pounding in his chest. Nerves then. Right. "I, um...it got ripped." 

Realizing his misstep, Graves sighed heavily and closed his eyes. "I...that was insensitive of me." He paused again, tapping his fingers against the edge of his cup before he set it down and turned to face Credence, bending one knee and laying his leg across the couch. One arm draped over the back of the couch, with the boy just out of reach of the tips of his fingers. His other hand rested in his lap, toying with the seam of his slacks. With his face tipped down, he lifted his eyes to study Credence's profile, noting the tension that had him locked up tight. "I shouldn't have lashed out at you like that. " 

Credence shook his head quickly, wincing slightly as the motion pulled on the bandages. With his free hand, he pushed the loose locks of black hair off his forehead, and Graves had the sudden urge to run his fingers through the strands, to feel the silk of his hair between his fingers again. "It's fine, Mr. Graves. I was late, I deserved it." His voice was low, attention locked on the warm cup between his hands. 

Graves fell completely still at Credence's soft words. "No," he corrected, "You didn't. No one deserves that level of a response. I was caught up in my own problems, and took them out on you." He was quiet again, then decided to take a chance. One hand reached out and gently touched the younger man's shoulder. He could feel Credence shift beneath the blanket, but he didn't pull away. It was almost like he felt like he should, but didn't want to. In the end, he simply settled, keeping the contact. "What makes you believe that you deserved that kind of treatment?" Credence only shrugged, turning his head to catch a glimpse of Graves' own profile without actually making eye contact. Graves' hand tightened on his narrow shoulder, feeling prominent bone through the fabric. The sensation made him frown, the boy was vastly underfed. In their flurry the night before, he'd noted how slender Credence was, but not just how dangerously so. "Credence...look at me." 

The tip of Credence's tongue darted out to wet his chapped lips, tasting chocolate and salt. He hesitated a moment before finally managing to make eye contact. Whatever he was expecting to find there, it wasn't the genuine concern he saw. Tears welled up in his eyes at the sight of it, and he had to bit his cheek hard to keep them from spilling down his cheeks. "I'm sorry, Credence." 

That was all it took. With a strangled sob, Credence pitched himself forward into Graves' lap. Though quick reflexes, and not a little bit of luck, Graves caught the cocoa before it spilled over the both of them and set it on the table before he wrapped his arms carefully around the weeping boy. Between his bent knee, and the tangle of blankets, it was a slightly awkward affair, but the director shifted his very light weight around until Credence was propped against his chest, face buried in his shoulder. Gut-wrenching sobs wracked his thin frame, so lost in his breakdown he barely noticed the pain of the contact across his injured back. For his part, Graves said nothing, simply holding Credence against his broad chest, fingers carding slowly through his soft black tangles. 

After a time, his sobs settled into soft whimpers and unsteady breaths. Graves turned so he rested more fully against the plush back of the couch and nestled Credence into the crook of his shoulder. They fit together like puzzle pieces, uncommonly perfect. Pressing a soft kiss against Credence's temple, Graves offered him a handkerchief. He sniffled and took it, wiping away his tears. "S-sorry about your sweater, director," he whispered. 

"Hush, my boy," responded Graves instantly, his words muffled by Credence's hair as he tightened his hold for a brief moment and felt him shiver. "Hush. You're fine." They sat in silence for several more minutes before Graves finally spoke again. "What happened?" It was an innocent enough question, but his tone indicated that he fully expected an answer. 

Credence sighed heavily and closed his eyes as he fought back a fresh flood of tears. As the adrenaline wore off, the pain was beginning to make its presence known again. He winced and shifted a little, surprised to find Graves willing to move to accomdate him until they found a position that was comfortable for the both of them; Credence tucked his knees nearly up to his chin, legs half draped into Graves' lap, while the older man's arm laid across the back of the couch, one hand still toying with his hair. Once settled, avoiding making eye contact, Credence told the same story he'd told Queenie. A second retelling made it easier on him, and he managed to make his way through it without crying again. 

Graves, on the other hand, grew colder and colder as the story continued. He'd never met this harpy, but even without that, he hated her. While the hand in Credence's hair continued its slow, tender caress, his other hand curled into a tight, white-knuckled fist at his side. When his story was finished, the silence between them was brittle. "How long has this been going on, Credence?" Graves' voice was tight, as if it might snap at any second. 

"My whole life," answered Credence with half a shrug. He pressed his face against the side of Graves' neck, inhaling his sharp, warm scent and finding comfort in his touch. 

"Let me see." Again, his words were soft, but the tone gave no room for argument. Credence sat up slowly, letting the blanket fall around his waist as he leaned forward. Both hands reached back to grab a hold of the hem of his borrowed sweatshirt, pulling it up over the edge of his shoulders. The sight of the network of faded scars that started just above the low-slung waistband of his sweats and ran the full length of his back made Graves visibly flinch. He bit down hard on the inside of his cheek, tasting blood as he fought back the urge to leap off the couch and find the woman himself. But no, that would be handled later. "My God, Credence," he breathed, the tips of his fingers brushing up his back. Goosebumps rippled in the wake of his touch, and Graves felt a sudden flare of protective, possessive instinct. His fingers reached the bandages, which were stained red and starting to lift at the edges. "You can't go back there." A gentle but insistent tug brought the sweatshirt back down over Credence's back, and he guided the young man down to lay across the couch with his head in Graves' lap. He was met with virtually no resistance as he settled Credence down and tucked the blanket around him. 

"Ma's been mad like this before," Credence said as he settled in, eyes already starting to drift shut as Graves resumed running his fingers through his hair. It was a simple gesture, but one he'd never experienced. He was surprised by how much he enjoyed it. "If I give her a couple days, she'll calm down, and I can go back." 

Eyes the color of deep whiskey watched as Credence began to drift into a light doze, finally relaxing. The young man's head tipped sideways almost absently, as if chasing the gentle touch of his hand. That protective feeling only intensified at the sight, and he shook his head even though Credence wasn't looking at him. "You misunderstand me, my boy. You're not going back there." 

Turning his head to look up at Graves, Credence frowned. "I can't stay here, though, and...I don't have a job to pay rent or anything. Where else am I going to go? The shelter?" Fear flashed across his eyes, and Graves could feel his breath start to speed up. 

"Calm down, Credence, we're not going to toss you out onto the street." Graves curled his fingers into Credence's hair and gave it a gentle, slow tug. Against his leg, he felt the boy tense, then relax further than he had before with a shuddering exhale. _Interesting._ "You'll come live with me." 

"Wait, what?" It took Credence a moment to answer, still recovering from the pull on his hair that had shot an unexpected jolt through him. His words were a little slow, almost slurred before he managed to focus. "I couldn't possibly--" 

"I have a spare bedroom that I don't use," Graves cut him off with a shake of his head and another coaxing tug of his hair. It worked just as well a second time, and Credence tucked his head back against Graves' hip, one hand resting on his thigh. Working harder than he really ought to to keep his mind on track, Graves cleared his throat and focused on business. "You can stay with me as long as you need to get up on your own two feet." He could already feel Credence's breathing begin to even out as sleep overtook him. Within moments, he was asleep with Graves' hand still in his hair. 

An hour later, the sisters returned. A sharp hiss from Graves silenced them as they rounded the corner into the sitting room to see Credence still asleep in his lap. One hand was buried in the mess of black hair, while the fingers of Graves' other hand were gently laced together with Credence's hand on his thigh. Tina opened her mouth to object, but a sharp elbow from Queenie knocked the breath out of her. She glared at her sister before rolling her eyes and heading into the kitchen. "She'll be fine," Queenie whispered as she perched on the edge of the coffee table, looking down at the sleeping Credence. "How is he?" 

"He'll be alright," came Graves' answer, eyes now back on the boy. God but he was a delicate creature. "He's going to move in with me for now." 

Queenie didn't seem at all surprised by this. She simply nodded, thoughtful at first, then finally in agreement. "Yes, I think that sounds like a good idea. His things are all still at...at his old apartment. How--" 

"I'll handle it." There was a decisive note to his tone, and Queenie couldn't help but smile a little. "I'll find out where he lives, and go there to collect the things he needs." His eyes drifted down to the hoodie he was drowning in, and Graves sighed. "As well as furnish him with some new things. Actually..." He turned and looked at Queenie with a raised eyebrow. "How would you like to go shopping today, Queenie?" 

"...for what?" She asked cautiously. 

"Credence. The boy desperately needs some new clothes, and you know what will fit him, and look good on him. Inner pocket of my coat you'll find my wallet. Take the cash there and buy him a few outfits. Enough to get him through the next few days until I can do it myself." Graves tipped his head towards the hall closet where he'd hung his coat. 

There was an odd look on Queenie's face that Graves couldn't quite place, but before he had the chance to question it, she was on her feet and in the hall. "I'll be back in a couple hours," Queenie said as she stuck her head back into the sitting room, showing Graves the wad of cash she'd found. "And I'll take Tina with me, so we're out of your hair." 

"Thank you," Graves said with a nod, which was returned with a grin before the pretty blonde disappeared again. He could hear a hushed conversation in the hall, then the front door opened and closed. 

Alone again, Graves looked back down at Credence with a flat expression. His fingers brushed a lock of hair back from his forehead, noting the boy's small shift and sigh with a smile. "You're safe now, my boy," he whispered. "No one will hurt you again. I promise."


	14. Never again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Graves goes to Credence's home to collect his things, and deliver a message.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the delay, my lovelies! I know it's been forever, and I've no good excuses. But hopefully getting this piece up will get me back in the swing of things. Also...please don't hate me for how this ends. <3 I love you, I swear. Comments, as always, are appreciated.

The following morning, Graves was up early. He showered and dressed expeditiously, having a particular goal in mind for the day. On his way down the hall from his bedroom, fiddling with his cufflinks with his tie loose around his neck, he paused at the open door to the guest room. Credence still slept soundly, the blankets thrown off in what looked like the tangle of fitful sleep. A frown tugged at Graves' lips, and he stepped inside silently. Warm fingers brushed an errant lock of black hair from his forehead, the soft skin furrowing, then relaxing again as he snuggled down into the pillow. The frown was replaced by a tender smile, and Graves pulled the blankets back up to cover the sleeping boy. Acting purely on instinct, he bent down and pressed a kiss against Credence's temple before slipping back out and continuing into the kitchen. On a normal morning, Graves would have settled in with his coffee and the newspaper. Today, he had no time for that. Instead, he scrawled a quick note that he left in the center of the table for Credence when he woke, along with a cell phone. 

_Credence,_

_I've gone out for a bit. In the meantime, help yourself to anything in the kitchen. When I return, we'll go out. Ms. Goldstein has confirmed that you are not needed for rehearsal today, so take time to rest. If you need anything, use this phone to call me._

_Yours,  
Graves_

Out on the street in front of his brownstone, a car was waiting for him. Graves slid into the back seat to find a hot coffee waiting for him. "You know me so well, Will," he said as he picked it up with an appreciative grin. 

"It helps that you don't change your patterns much, Mr. Graves," said the older man in the front seat, the wrinkles around his eyes deepening as he grinned back into the rearview mirror. "Where to, sir?" 

"Wagner Housing community in Spanish Harlem." His answer was short and flat, giving the driver pause. After a moment, though, Will nodded and took off. In the silence, Graves watched the city pass by out the window. He tapped one finger on the side of his coffee cup, releasing the black rage that he'd been shoving aside in Credence's presence. It didn't help him, and what the boy needed now more than anything was rest. So Graves had kept his irrationally violent loathing to himself whenever the boy was around. But now, alone in the car, he was able to let it catch like wildfire in a dry forest. By the time they pulled up in front of the derelict brick building, the town car drawing the wrong sorts of attention in this neighborhood, he had a healthy dose of vitriolic acid pulsing through his veins. Coffee finished, he set the mug back in the cup holder and leaned forward to rest a hand on Will's shoulder. "Wait here." 

He slid out of the car with a predatory grace, dark eyes sharp as they scanned the street. A small group of 6 or 7 kids, somewhere in their mid to late teens, had stopped their game of basketball in the bare concrete court, their hoop barely more than a pipe in the ground with a circle nailed to it, sideways at that. They stood staring at the car that in all likelihood cost more than some of their families made in a year, eying it hungrily. Graves closed the door and approached the group, hands sliding comfortably into his pockets. He cut quite the impressive image in his impeccably tailored suit and black tie with silver accents, his deep slate blue scarf draped around his neck. A quick check of each of the players, and he narrowed his focus on the tallest boy, who was likely a few years younger than Credence, and just as uncomfortably thin. However, where there was a genuine tenderness in Credence's eyes, this boy had nothing but contempt and scorn for the world that spat on him. 

A fascinating study in the contradictions of nature versus nurture, to be sure, but now wasn't the time. 

"I'm looking for the Barebone family," Graves said as he came to a stop on the other side of the tall chainlink fence. Suspicion darkened every face there, and he watched at the tallest boy bristled. 

"Who wants to know?" He asked bitterly, pinning the basketball against his hip with one forearm. 

"I do," answered Graves with casual confidence. "Where can I find them?" 

The boy laughed, a harsh sound that had no joy to it. "And why the hell would I tell a fancy little fag like you?" His friends laughed along with the vulgarity, but no reaction showed on Graves' face. Instead, he waited patiently for the noise and additional taunts to die down before answering. 

"I'm a friend of Credence's." At the use of the young man's name, Graves felt the tone of the gathering shift. Before, they had been obstinate on principle. Now, they were like a protective pack of dogs. Good then, the boy had some support here, even if his home wasn't safe. 

"Where is he? Is he ok?" Asked one of the boys in the back, a scrawny little thing with poorly shorn blond hair. "We haven't seen him in a coupla days, we was startin' to get worried." 

"He's safe," Graves assured him with a nod. "But I need to speak with...Ms. Barebone." He refused to refer to the woman as his mother; that was giving her far more respect than she deserved. 

"Define safe, old man," the taller boy said again, cutting off the blond from answering without considering the consequences. His instinct for paranoia was strong; good. Graves turned his full attention to him, letting the boy see just the barest hint of the vengeance that burned there. 

"He's in a place where that wretched woman will never be able to reach or harm him again. That good enough for you?" He waited several beats for his words and expression to sink in, when the boy finally nodded. "Glad we agree. Where can I find her?" 

"Just there," he said with a tip of his head towards the center brick building. "Fourth floor, D43. Should be home, they rarely go out. Girls are probably doing their schoolwork right now." 

"Girls?" One heavy brow arched over dark eyes, the surprise registering in the back of his mind, but not on his face. 

"Yeah, Creedy's got three little sisters," piped up the blond, squawking when the older boy smacked him on the back of the head. "Ow! Whaaaat?" 

"Go back on the court. Go on, all'ya." He waved them off, feinting towards a particularly slow one before he stepped closer to the fence, still holding the ball under his arm. "You said she's never gonna hurt him again?" Graves nodded once, curling his hands into fists in the deep pockets of his coat. "You promise? That boy's been through hell, he deserves better than all of us." 

"That he does," Graves agreed. "Yes. I promise you, he will be safe." He bit down on his tongue to stop the instinctive 'with me' that nearly leapt from his lips. "Anything else I ought to know?" 

"Just that she's a raging bitch, and deserves everythin' she's got comin' to her." His voice was hard and bitter, venomous from a hard life Graves could only imagine. "Make her pay." 

All Graves offered him was a nod as he took one step back and pivoted on the ball of his foot. His steps were long and confident as he strode towards the building. Hands coming free of his pockets, he made his way inside. The acrid stench of an unkempt building hit his nose hard, and he pressed the back of his hand against his nose. There would be no temptation to linger then. 

Up on the fourth floor, he found the unit easily enough. A large cross hung on the door, and all of a sudden a great many things were clear. Glancing around, his eyes caught on a dark smear of what might have been blood along the wall opposite the door. His lips pressed into a tight line, Graves clenched his jaw and knocked on the door, his knuckles making three solid raps against the thin wood. Inside, he could hear the sound of a woman's low voice, and some shuffling around before quick footsteps approached the door. "I was wondering when you'd make your way back here, you useless little--" the door popped open to reveal a shorter, angry woman with heavy lines around her dark, beady eyes with greying hair that was cut to a sharp bob at her chin. "Oh. You're not...yes, hello, how can I help you?" Her lips were pinched into a tight smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. 

"Ms. Barebone?" Graves' voice was politely cold, dangerously detached. His own whiskey amber eyes flashed with a barely held temper that the woman in the door could see; her grip shifted on the edge of the door, and he could see her foot move to brace against it. 

"That's me. And you are...wait." Her eyes narrowed as she slowly looked him up and down, taking full stock of his appearance now that the surprise of an early morning visitor had worn off. "You're that man I saw at the theatre with my son. With your hands on him." 

That piece of information had not been shared by Credence last night. Both brows lifted, his hands coming away from his sides, palms towards the ceiling. "Yes. I am. And you're the abomination of a woman who claims to be his mother. Well met. I'm here to collect his things." 

"Like hell you are," the woman scoffed. She stepped back into the apartment and made to shut the door. The palm of Graves' hand smacked hard into the door, stopping it from closing, and instead shoving it back into her face. She narrowly avoided a broken nose, stumbling back in surprise. "Wh-what do you think you're doing?" 

"Returning the favor." He took two long steps into the apartment, filling the space with his presence. "You feel how your heart is pounding in your fingertips? How you can't quite get a full breath? How the only thing you can see in your vision is me?" With each sentence, he moved closer, backing the trembling woman up until her knees hit the edge of the couch and forced her to sit. Both hands braced on either side of her as Graves leaned down into her space, noses bare inches apart. "That? Is terror. That is what you made that boy feel every single day. You crippled the man you were supposed to love and protect with all of your being." He shoved away from the couch, looming over her. "How _fucking_ dare you." 

Stepping away, Graves looked up at the three confused girls sitting in the dining room. His body language changed immediately, shoulders dropped back from their bulldog posture as he came around the couch, completely discarding the woman on the couch. "Hello, ladies. Can one of you please tell me which room is Credence's?" 

The youngest girl nodded and stepped away from her older sister. She batted away her nervous hands and led Graves into the bedroom her brother shared with her oldest sister. "This is his room," she said quietly as she opened the door for him. Graves had to bite down on the inside of his cheek to stop himself from turning back into the living room and giving that woman every lash she'd given his sweet boy. Red filled his vision, and he nearly did precisely as he dreamed, until there was a gentle tug on the sleeve of his coat. He blinked and looked down at the little girl, but didn't quite manage to school his expression entirely. "Are you going to take care of my brother?" She asked, her high voice delicate and worried. 

Swallowing hard, Graves knelt down so he was at eye level with her. "Yes, my dear, I am." He lifted his hand to tuck a stray strand of her blonde hair behind her ear and gently tap the end of her nose. "Your brother will be safe and happy now. Are you safe here?" He tried to keep his tone light, but he needed to know that he wasn't leaving three more young victims. 

"I am, sir," she said with a smile. "Ma is...strong willed. But she never hit me or my sisters. Only Credence." As Graves went to stand again, she grabbed his shoulders. "Please, sir, just take his things and go. I promise we're ok." A strong girl this one, Graves recognized the spine in her. He let out his held breath slowly and smiled as he nodded. "Thank you. Here, I'll help." 

It didn't take long to pack up Credence's few things. Graves only took the things that the young girl indicated were his favorites; a pair of well-loved sweats, a couple t-shirts, and a surprisingly warm hoodie. Everything fit into one small bag, and only made the list of things he fully intended to buy the boy that much longer. He turned to go when he caught sight of the guitar in the corner of the room. It was a beaten, worn thing, something that could and should be replaced with a better one. But something about it drew his attention, and he couldn't leave it. Shifting the bag onto his shoulder, Graves bent and grabbed the battered handle, catching the smiling eye of his sister. "Yes, Credence will be good with you," she said quietly. "You know him." 

Unsure of what to say to that, Graves simply nodded and stepped out into the living room. Ma now stood in the dining room, her arms around the shoulders of the other two girls. She looked down at the bag and guitar in his hands, and he could see the hate fill her own eyes. "You think you're going to just--" 

"Yes, I do. And yes, I am." Graves cut her off hard, staring her down across the small room. "He is a grown adult, and has no reason to be squashed under your thumb any longer. You will not contact him, or look for him. If I find you lurking around him, or me, I will _destroy_ you, and everything you hold dear." There was a depth to his voice, a gravel that made her step back and hold the girls closer. He held eye contact several heartbeats longer until she finally gave him a shaky nod. "Good. You aren't completely stupid." 

Without another word, Graves gave a small nod to the littlest Barebone, then walked briskly out of the apartment, slamming the door behind him. He wasted no time heading back outside, and was very glad to see Will's car still waiting for him, unmolested. As he got closer, he spotted the tall boy from before leaning against the trunk, with Will out beside him as the two chatted amiably. "Well, aren't you two chummy," Graves said as he got within earshot. The older man grinned as he straightened, clapping the boy on the shoulder. 

"You made an impression on him, sir. He wanted to keep my company while you raised hell." Will turned and glanced up at the brick building, spotting Ms. Barebone peering out the window of her apartment. "I'm surprised no one came flying out of the window." 

"It was a near thing, Will. Do you mind?" He gestured to the door, nodding his thanks as his driver opened the door. Sliding the meager possessions inside, Graves straightened and looked at the boy loitering at the back of the car. "Thank you for your help...I'm sorry, what's your name?" 

"Chuck," the boy said, extending a grimy, calloused hand. Without hesitation, Graves met it and shook it firmly. 

"Graves. A pleasure. I'll be in touch." With one last shake, Graves pulled away and ducked into the car. He closed the door firmly, keeping one hand on the guitar. "Let's get home, Will." 

The drive back was silent, with Graves watching the city crawl by. He could feel the anger slip away. It was done; Credence would never have to go back to that wretched hovel again. He would be safe, he would be warm, he would be cared for. As he should be. 

Back at the house, Graves grabbed the bag and guitar again. "Give me about two hours, Will, then I'll need you again," he said as he headed for the steps. "Assuming you've no other demands on your time today?" 

"Even if I did, I'd reschedule them for you, sir." Will grinned and nodded his head as Graves slipped him a sizeable tip, as always. "Two hours and I'll be here for you." Another nod, and the man climbed back into his car and disappeared into traffic. 

Graves lived in one of the brownstones in the heart of the city, just on the edge of the city core. He unlocked the solid door and stepped into his home. It was a utilitarian space, a warm foundation that was clearly rarely used. Dark woods and intricate detailed trim were well decorated with leather couches, and several tall, stuffed full bookshelves. A large stone fireplace sat cold, flanked with two overstuffed armchairs. One of them was occupied by the leggy Credence curled up as if to make himself as small as possible. He wore the heavy sweater Graves had left for him in the room, black hair a slightly better managed mop than when he'd been sleeping. A mug of steaming tea perched on the arm of the chair, and he was buried in one of Graves' poem books. Even from the door, he could easily identify it as one of his Robert Frost books. "Hello, my boy," Graves said as he closed the door. 

Credence started in surprise, barely managing to save his tea mug from crashing to the floor. "Oh, there you are!" He said with a bright smile. "Where did you...oh." His eyes landed on the bag and guitar in his hand, a sudden flush rising on his cheeks. "Mr. Graves, you didn't have to--" 

"Yes I did. God, I've been interrupting people all day." Setting Credence's things down, Graves crossed the room. He nudged a broad footstool over to the chair and sat down on it, his knees on either side of Credence's legs. "You certainly weren't going to go get your things yourself, and I couldn't in good conscience make you go back there. Your sister helped me pack your things, I only grabbed what she said was most important to you. Including your guitar. And once you're ready, you and I will go out and fill in the gaps in your wardrobe." 

Credence's blush deepened, and he set the book aside. "Graves, you can't expect me to just...accept this." His fingers wrapped around the mug, and he tried to hide his embarrassment behind the ceramic. 

"Has no one ever helped you before, Credence?" Graves leaned in a little, one hand resting on his thin shin. The young man looked down at the hand on his leg, shaking his head. "I thought not. Let me help you. I _want_ to help you." He squeezed his leg gently, waiting for acknowledgement. 

"I...you...ok. Yes, fine." Credence huffed out a quiet breath of resignation. He watched as Graves' face actually lightened with an amused smile, and found himself suddenly, irresistibly drawn to him. Both feet dropped down to the floor and he leaned forward to kiss that smile, tasting the warm sting of coffee, and that unique warmth that he imagined was just Graves. The man made a low sound of surprise, then Credence felt his other hand slide up along the side of his neck to bury in the curls at the base of his neck. Graves tightened his fingers and held him close, carefully deepening the kiss. 

Several moments passed before Graves pulled away suddenly, keeping close as he met Credence's dark eyes. "You didn't...Credence, I don't expect you to do anything with me because I'm--" 

"You're not my pimp, Graves," Credence said with a quiet laugh, slightly breathless. "Has no one ever kissed you before?" A faint twinkle in his eye as he tossed Graves' question back at him, making the older man growl just a little before he pulled Credence in for another, slightly rougher kiss. 

Credence sank willingly into it, letting his mug drop down into his lap. One warm hand released the side and lifted to grip at Graves' wrist, holding him close as he let out a soft whimper. The sound made Graves drawn in a tight breath of his own, his other hand lifting to skate down Credence's narrow side. He was slim, ribs too prominent even through the thick clothes. His fingers curled into the fabric and pulled him even closer, nearly off the chair and into his lap. 

Acting on instinct, Credence followed the tug. His legs maneuver somewhat awkwardly, one hand blindly setting the mug down on the floor before he perched himself in Graves' lap. Thigh to thigh now, Credence settled his weight down onto Graves. The sound of his low groan sent a thrill up the younger man's spine, and he gasped as the director suddenly pushed his hand around to his back and under the edge of his shirt. Rough fingers found warm skin, tracing up the line of his spine as Credence shivered under his touch. "Oh God, Graves," he gasped again, breaking the kiss and shuddering hard. Both hands free now, he dropped them down to the older man's narrow hips and holding tight. 

"Yes, my boy?" Graves asked, voice rough and low as he moved his mouth down the side of his throat. Remembering the sounds he made in that alley the other night, he let his teeth drag along the side of his neck. As before, Credence made the most delicious moan, letting his head fall to the side to give him better access. His skin burned with the most intense need, the sensation barely similar to what he felt when alone. He _craved_ it. "Tell me what you want." His breath was hot against his suddenly sensitive skin, and Credence dropped his head down into Graves' shoulder, his own teeth finding the edge of one earlobe. Graves groaned in surprise, biting down a bit harder than before and drawing a yelp from Credence. 

"Please...don't stop..." His hips ground down in an instinctive movement, Graves' hand dropping down to his hip and gripping tightly. 

"Oh, I have no intention to stop, my boy," Graves promised. In the back of his mind, he knew he couldn't push too hard too fast. He didn't want to scare the boy off. 

But that didn't mean he couldn't make Credence feel exactly as good as he deserved.


End file.
